


Hypothermia

by katineto (mistalagan)



Series: Hypothermia [1]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Magic, Arranged Marriage, F/F, M/M, No non-con between major characters, POV Multiple, Slavery, Yakov is not the Tsar
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-09
Updated: 2017-11-13
Packaged: 2018-12-25 18:43:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 6
Words: 23,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12041940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mistalagan/pseuds/katineto
Summary: The Tsesarevich of the Rus' Empire has always been full of surprises.This, though, might his biggest surprise yet: one, that he has deigned to choose a war-prize after successfully leading the Rus' to victory over the Yashima; two, that his prize is a petty lord of such little consequence as Katsuki Yuuri. But things are not as they seem, and the two may have more shared history than anyone suspects…





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Notes on the warnings: this chapter contains mild depictions of torture. A subsequent chapter will contain non-consensual sexual activity; this does not, and will not, occur between the main characters. Once it's in the posted story I'll tag for it.
> 
> This is probably the darkest chapter as far as mood goes.

**_Master Minami Kenjirou, squire to Lord Katsuki Yuuri of Yashima_ **

The air on the field is still and heavy, as if the last gasps of the Yashima dead hover among the living, whispering _shame_ , _shame_ , _shame_. What is left of the army is assembled here, in full armor, their weapons cast down in piles on the dirt. Even with no wind, it is bitterly cold, an ill omen for the time of year.

A shudder passes through the ranks as their Emperor, descended from the Sun herself, drops into a bow. The Tsar, across from him, does not smile, but Kenjirou sees the smirks of his men. They are fresh, uninjured, newly arrived from some far-flung region of the Rus’ Empire; many had not even participated in the battles these past weeks. Any well-meaning Yashima soldier who cried out in defense of their Emperor would be easily cut down.

Beside the Tsar, Kenjirou catches a glimpse of infamous silver hair, but not the face beneath it. He doesn’t have a good view of the proceedings; Katsuki-san is a lesser lord (though not by courage, or skill, only birth!) and as such placed far away from the Emperor. Katsuki-san stares straight ahead, expression blank, hands deliberately relaxed. Kenjirou can only wish for such composure.

After the Tsar speaks, he waits patiently for the translator to shout his meaning across the crowd. His words are like snakes, bitter crawling things that do nothing to alleviate the horror of the situation. Yashima will become a province of Rus. The Emperor—unstated, but they all know—will return home and take his own life in penance. Some minister from Rus’ will be appointed to guide their new wayward child.

“Although it is with great sorrow we have fought and killed our brethren, we know that it is only in the service of bringing our nations together in strength. A single piece of straw is weak and yielding; a sheaf bound together is strong. Let this day be an occasion of joy, therefore, since our brave cousins have come to join us under the flag of the great Empire of Rus’.”

Kenjirou splutters, a whine escaping his mouth. Joy!? He bares his teeth at the Yashima translator, who looks about as sick as Kenjirou feels.

“In celebration of our joining, and as a show of penance on your behalf, we will as tradition dictates select one of your warriors to enter our court. Although they will know suffering, in order to understand our suffering, they will emerge from their experience into a life of pleasure and luxury, an honored consort of one of our warriors and a member of our family.”

He’s heard of this, vaguely, in lewd whispers around campfires. Some high-ranking Rus’ soldier will make their choice, usually from among the royal family. The sacrifice will be taken, brutalized until their will is broken, and given to the soldier as a submissive slave. Technically married but hardly a spouse. The Rus’ court, they say, is crawling with jewel-festooned captives, former proud princes and princesses reduced to mere decorations.

The Emperor has three children, two of which are here today. Kenjirou shudders to think that the mild-mannered Prince or courageous Princess will soon be an abject whore.

 “In recognition that the land of Yashima has proven to be honorable foes and shall be even greater allies to our court, my own son, the Tsesarevich, will choose a consort today.”

At that, even Katsuki-san tenses and looks up. The Tsesarevich steps forward, and Kenjirou can see him properly now; his cold blue eyes and thin lips are set in a smirk, and his hair is the unnatural silver of an old man. He is beautiful, Kenjirou supposes, but he looks cruel. He sweeps his gaze over the Yashima, then turns to his father and nods.

 “Your choice?” The Tsar sounds almost benevolent.

 The Tsesarevich smiles, a practiced thing. Kenjirou can’t hear—no, can't believe—his next words over the sudden buzzing in his ears. His stomach drops out in horror as the people around Katsuki-san melt away. He, and Kenjirou beside him, are left exposed and alone on the field. Katsuki-san’s eyes are wide, lips faintly open as if to say something. He stands frozen, still.

 The Emperor’s expression does not change, but his attendants look surprised, then horribly relieved. A swell of muttering and whispering gathers, then drops abruptly as the Emperor raises a hand. “Katsuki Yuuri,” he calls out, and Katsuki-san walks forward like a marionette, stiffly. Kenjirou scuttles behind him. He will not leave his lord.

 There is a marked difference in the two armies as they pass by. To their left, the Rus’ people whistle and titter. To their right, the Yashima silently bow.

 When he reaches the Emperor, Katsuki-san ignores the Tsar and his son. Instead, he prostrates himself before the Emperor, and, looking at his feet, asks, “What is your will, Your Imperial Majesty?”

Kenjirou drops to his knees as well, of course, but shivers under the gazes of the Emperor and the Tsar.

“Divest yourself of your armor and livery. You are to be engaged to the Tsesarevich.” The Emperor hesitates for a long moment, then brings his finger to Katsuki-san’s chin and raises it. “Go, my son, with all our hearts behind you.”

It is Kenjirou’s duty to assist his lord in this, and he does, shaking. It is the last time he ever will. Thin straps of leather holding the armor together fall away, and the panels fall to the ground. When the armor is gone, Katsuki-san stands in Hasetsu blue, and Kenjirou helps him take that off, too. Relative to the royal family, his raiment is simple. It doesn’t take long before he is dressed only in his plain white undershirt and pants, practically naked by the standards of society. He stands unaffected by the cold, holding himself as if it were a warm summer's day.

Kenjirou is crying. “I’ll go with you, my lord,” he whispers as he pats Katsuki-san down, pretending there is something left to do. “I’ll never leave you—“

 “Minami-kun,” Katsuki-san turns to him, grips him by the hand. His eyes are wet, but his voice does not shake. “Minami-kun, you will go home.” He looks at their linked hands meaningfully. "To Mari."

His hand slips away from Kenjirou's when two burly soldiers drag him back towards the Rus’ by his shoulders. The Tsar and Tsesarevich watch impassively as he's manhandled, putting up no resistance. The soldiers produce iron cuffs, locking them around his wrists. He flinches, and it is only then that his eyes widen, betraying shock and fear.

They lead him away. Kenjirou watches until the proud form of his retreating back is swallowed up in the red and white sea of the Rus' army. He clutches at the necklace Katsuki-san had slipped him, opening his hand as he turns it to see the plain gold band looped around a simple chain.

 

**_Lady Katsuki Mari, eldest child of the Katsuki family and heir to the Hasetsu domains_ **

The formal kimono is heavy and itchy. It’s an expensive thing, with carefully embroidered flowers on the long sleeves. When the Katsuki family was brought to the Imperial palace, their own formalwear was deemed inappropriate; too rural, too cheap. Instead, they were outfitted in clothing the likes of which the royal family might have worn.

“You are like family to us,” the new Empress had said, her eyes tired. “We will not show weakness in the Rus’ court.”

Mari would very much like to tear the damn thing off, and while she’s at it, tear the smiles off the Rus’ faces. That wouldn’t be showing weakness, right?

They’re seated in a circular auditorium, quite small; only a few hundred people, mostly nobles of the Rus’ and their allies, fit in the space. The Tsar is seated across from the Yashima delegation. Beside him are his children, most notably the Tsesarevich. His silver hair falls boyishly in his eyes; his chin is on one hand, and he seems lost in thought.

Mari hates him.

Instead of this rich garment, she should be wearing plain black, preparing for a funeral. Perhaps it would be better if she were. When Minami Kenjirou had come to Hasetsu, his eyes rimmed red with tears, they had thought Yuuri dead; she will never forget her normally quite composed mother’s scream when they’d heard the truth.

Here, they will witness the traditional ritual, taking place over days, that the intended consorts go through; then, at the end, what she is sure will be a mockery of a wedding. His family will go home, and Yuuri will stay here, a pretty trophy to hang on the Tsesarevich’s arm. Mari has seen others of the type already; near the Tsar sits the Duchess Mila Babicheva, with her wife (hah!) the Lady Sara. Formerly of the Republic of Campania, now Sara Crispino leans on Babicheva and looks up at her adoringly. Rumor was they had once been friends, before the war. Babicheva clearly had held little regard for their friendship when she'd made her choice.

Sara had been a great warrior, once. When she was chosen, as Mari has heard, her brother went berserk, attacking the Rus’ guards indiscriminately. He was nearly killed for it. Only by her begging and pleading and promises of utter submission was his life spared. Perhaps if Mari were braver she would do the same as Michele, but here she sits, silent.

Down in the center of the auditorium is a small round stage, covered in straw and brambles, surrounded by flickering magelights. A structure stands in the middle, two posts and a beam across with chains hanging from the top. The lights in the rest of the auditorium go down, so that just that little stage is illuminated. The audience quiets. Beside her, her mother is stock still, and her father looks down at his feet.

The procession is silent. First, a man in white ceremonial regalia, then another all in black. Two medic-mages. Then four guards, surrounding a pale, small figure. Yuuri’s head is held high, but he shuffles his bare feet, and he wavers on the steps leading up to the stage. A short white skirt is the only thing that protects his modesty. He is gaunt, skinny; Yuuri, who always put weight on easily, just like their mother.

He winces with each step across the stage, brambles scratching at his feet and legs. Halfway to the structure, he stumbles, and Mari’s mother draws in a quick breath. Her father is already not watching, and he closes his eyes.

They raise Yuuri's arms and shackle him; it is a little too high, so that he must stay on his tiptoes or else put all his weight on his arms. He is set up to be facing the Tsar, away from his family. He doesn’t look around. He must not be able to see very much anyway; it’s unlikely they bothered to cast the temporary spells to sharpen his eyesight, and she knows he doesn’t have his glasses.

 _We_ _’_ _re here, Yuuri_ , she thinks as loudly as she can, _stay strong_.

The man in white speaks, his voice booming through the space. The auditorium is equipped with translation spells; what Mari hears doesn’t match his mouth, but his meaning. “The first price of the war has been paid,” he declaims. “For each month of battle, that took food out of our people’s mouths and their sons and daughters from the field, a day without sustenance. This complete, we begin the second act of penance.”

It had been a long war.

The man in black steps behind Yuuri and brandishes a whip. “For every thousand of our dead,” the man in white explains, “A strike.”

It had also been a bloody war.

Mari forces herself to watch as the whip catches her little brother’s skin and he jerks forward. He does not cry out. “One,” says the man in white.

He keeps counting. Eventually, a pained yelp erupts from Yuuri’s throat, and Mari surges upward. To hell with this, to hell with them all. They’ve not suppressed her magic. She can kill some of them before—

Her mother’s hand catches her arm and drags her back down. Hiroko does not look at her daughter; her eyes are fixed on Yuuri. Her iron grip on Mari’s arm does not let up as the sounds turn into screams, then fade away entirely, and his legs give out so that he dangles like a limp puppet from his arms.

Mari looks up at the Tsar. He seems almost amused. Beside him, though, she swears she can see the Tsesarevich wince with every blow. Strange, that the so-called Ice Demon of the North would have no stomach for such things. Then again, she has heard his way of killing is bloodless.

It is too long before they stop. Yuuri’s back is a macerated, chewed-up mess. His blood drips on the yellow straw beneath him. “The second price is paid,” says the man in white.

They have to carry him out of the auditorium. Mari watches him go. The next time she glances at the Tsar’s family, the Tsesarevich has disappeared.

The Katsuki family returns to their allocated rooms; the Rus' attendants, after ensuring they have what they need, disappear. Only then does her mother break down in tears. Normally, her father would crack some joke, to bring light to a dark time. Now, he sits in sullen silence, his own grief stilling his tongue.

Mari isn’t sad; she’s angry. She storms out of the rooms, walking blindly down the halls. Nobody tries to stop her. She finds her way outside, to some well-tended garden. Once there, she kicks a bush, punches a rose tree, screams impotently at the night sky. She could do real damage but doesn’t, really, just tires herself out until with shaking hands she lights herself a cigarette. Smokes it, hand drifting to the ring hanging around her neck. Minami-kun had brought it back. It has a faint glimmer of enchantment on it, but she's not yet identified the spell. For courage, most likely. Soldiers carry these sorts of tokens around all the time.

Somebody shifts in the darkness and she starts, cigarette dangling from her fingertips. She must look a mess, hair out of its tight updo and eyes wild. A boy steps out into the light, hands shoved in his pockets, golden hair gleaming. The Grand Prince, Yuri. Shit. If he’d seen—he has the influence to make it worse for Yuuri, and from what she’s heard of his whims he’d do it.

But he doesn’t say anything, just stands next to her and lights a cigarette of his own. Smokes it halfway before dropping it and grinding it into the dirt with his foot.

“I don’t know why he fucking picked him,” he says in Albian, accented but understandable, “But Viktor’s obsessed with the little piggy.” He glares at her. “Stupid to make you watch, though.” With that, he’s gone.

 

**_Lady Sara Crispino, consort to the Duchess Babicheva and representative of the province of Campania_ **

Sara remembers the cold. Sometimes, she wakes up, warm in Mila’s arms, with the memory of it; snow drifting around her, too tired to shiver. Tonight, she might not sleep.

Most of the consorts—and there aren’t that many, really—choose not to attend the rituals, if they're given the choice. Mila asks her every time, concerned, but for whatever reason Sara feels like she has a duty to watch. As if it would make it easier, for him, that there is someone who’s been through it before nearby.

She huddles next to Mila, guilty that she has such ready access to warmth. Yuuri Katsuki is chained in the center of an artificial snowstorm, crafted by Rus’ ice mages. He curls into himself as much as he can, but he has neither the body fat nor the strength left to endure for long. This third penance is exposure, for the loss of infrastructure and long nights of soldiers in the field.

For Sara, used to the balmy warmth of Campania, it had been the worst. As an ice mage, Yuuri should have been fine—but the cuffs around his wrists suppress his magic, and he looks practically insensate already. It's symbolic. Sara's no caster, but the elemental ones are given their own element to suffer through. Desert heat for fire; lashing winds for air.

 She’s not sure what prompts it, but the snow suddenly ceases, and the ice disappears. There’s muttering in the auditorium—the ordeal is meant to go on for longer—and Sara looks up to see Viktor standing, hand out and trembling. Ah. He himself is an accomplished ice mage, perfectly capable of calming the storm.

“Enough,” he says, voice ringing out. “Enough. Take him to be tended to. The penance is over.”

 Something about the look in his eyes makes the master of ceremonies comply with no protest, after a glance at the Tsar. The Tsar himself seems immensely self-satisfied. Across the room, the Yashima delegation’s faces look as blank as ever, but the tension that had sat across their shoulders is lessened.

“Let’s go,” Mila whispers in her ear, and Sara nods in agreement. They leave in a flutter of skirts.

They've not yet reached their rooms when Viktor catches up to them, his long strides eating up the distance easily. "Lady Sara," he nods to her, "Mila, can I talk to you?"

Mila smirks at him. "I thought you might want to."

Ice shivers up his forearms almost unconsciously. He rubs it away. "Alone?"

Mila takes him by the arm and turns down a hallway that leads outside, to a private garden. "I'll see you later, Sara," she says as she goes.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note that this chapter contains explicit, non-consensual penetration/sexual activity.
> 
> EDIT: for clarification, the perpetrator is not Chris, or any other named YOI character.

**_Katsuki Yuuri_ **

Yuuri floats.

Distantly, he registers it as the aftereffects of magical healing: bone-deep exhaustion, a murky haze that trickles thick fog into his brain. He drifts along, wavering between a heavy, alluring blackness and confused moments of consciousness. The world is blurry when he opens his eyes; murmurs and sharp laughter pass over his ears with the same sense of detachment.

He is not in the cell. He knows that much.

There, it was cold (cold! he’d half forgotten what that meant; an ailment of childhood, a concern for other people). Small, with just enough space for him to choose to stand or crouch until the cramps set in and he’d no longer had a choice. Utterly dark, oppressively silent. There, the walls had pressed in and he’d wept and slammed himself against the door, when he’d still had the strength, scrabbled at the hinges until his guard swore and opened the tiny window and sent a flicker of magelight through, just enough to push the suffocation away.

In the mountains, when the snowpack breaks and tumbles into an avalanche, or an unlucky step sends them tumbling into a hidden chasm, people (other people!) die that way, in a cold dark disorienting coffin of snow.

He is not in the cell. In his moments of wakefulness, the room is large and brightly lit, outfitted with cheerful magelights and warm colors. He’s not cold. Nothing hurts. He is lying down, on something soft, a true luxury.

The worst isn’t over. This he knows. But for now he is content to float.

He’s shaken awake eventually, blinking futilely as if it would sharpen his vision. Calloused fingers grip his chin and turn his head back and forth. A sharp voice informs him, “Your penance is over. We will wash you.”

Harsh cleaning spells rub his skin raw, snaking along his body, reaching up his thighs and groin though he yelps and tries to twist away. He can’t. He lies trembling in humiliation, acutely aware of the thoroughness of their work. The grime and filth of weeks stewing in his own sweat and fear are scraped away. He should feel lighter, but only feels exposed.

“Your old life is over. Your battles are no longer yours to claim. We will wash you.”

They buckle soft cuffs over his wrists, iron sheathed in leather, and remove the old, rough ones. There’s no reprieve from the pressure there, the careful craftsmanship that has kept his magic locked away.

Many hands spread thick cream over every part of him. He flinches away in protest, too tired to put up more than a token fight. A thin layer of spellwork settles over him, activating the cream.

Almost immediately, his skin starts to sting and itch. It’s not long before he’s writhing, trying to scratch the sensation away, but it does no good—it seems as though it only grows worse.

They keep him that way for the better part of an hour, then scrub the cream away as he pants from exertion. He looks down at himself, expecting to see redness, sores. Instead, his skin is smooth and clear. He barely recognizes it. His scars and hard-won calluses were apparently deemed no longer useful.

“Your service will begin. We will wash you.”

Another faceless set of hands wields a thin brush while they move him back and around like a doll. The brush is hot where it touches him, leaving slick black lines that loop and curl, tracing the outlines of the small bones in his hands, the jut of his shoulderblades, the parallel curves of his ribs. They paint over his newly flawless skin in arcane sigils and blocky Rus’. It takes time, a long time, to mark out his skeleton in magic and ink.

They light incense burners and sprinkle him with cold liquid, and when their preparation is finally done they cast the spell. The lines sink into his body, white-hot—he arches his back in a spasm of agony as they etch themselves into his bones.

He is screaming, distantly.

As suddenly as it started, the pain ends, and he gasps deep breaths in relief.

Some new and foreign thing has lodged itself firmly beside his heart.

“Your life will begin. We will wash you.”

They rub oils into his skin, and when they’re done he smells of cinnamon and sandalwood. His eyes are lined with kohl and dusted with gold; his nails trimmed short, his body hairless.

They wrench his legs apart and he grits his teeth. Warm oil drips between his buttocks and practiced hands massage it in. He lets out an involuntary whimper. A finger slips inside him. He clenches around it, and someone clucks. “Relax. It will go easier.”

He shakes his head, but he doesn’t have much choice; although the soporific effect of the healing spells has worn off, something about the warmth and the oils and the scents is making his drowsy and pliant. They massage him from the inside, making him slick and open, brushing gently against that place that makes him gasp and cry out. They withdraw, with a parting slap on his buttocks.

They tie him to a stretcher with soft red cord. It loops around his wrists and ankles, criss-crosses his chest and presses against his throat. They drape jewels around him, his neck and waist, his wrists and fingers, ankles and toes. He has enough wealth laid upon his body to keep the hot springs at home running for years, and he has to swallow back a sudden clench of homesickness.

He may never see Hasetsu again. But he had known that, long before.

He dozes. Time passes. He dreams of ice and silver and wakes shivering. 

They cover him to the neck in a thin, practically translucent sheet. He’s carried, one more time, onto the stage. Catches a blurry few moments of the audience—he can’t make out their faces, just the mass of unfamiliar strangers, laughing and chatting. He hates that. But he promised he could do this; he promised he’d be strong. 

This time, he is concealed from view in a tent. When the flaps close, he is in almost-darkness, with only a few candles lighting the inside. The noise of the crowd cuts off. They must have sound-dampening set up; the only sounds are his breathing, and his heart beating loudly in his ears.

He lies there for some time, straining to hear anything. This, more than the hunger, the pain, the cold, is the part he was dreading. He knows, generally, what they will do, but not the specifics. He imagines public humiliation, being passed around the court, being treated like a plaything, and his breath quickens. He tests his bonds, twisting his wrists and pulling. It's useless.

Fabric rustles, and an attendant slips through into the tent. He stands beside Yuuri, meeting his eyes. “No one will be permitted to have you,” he explains, “Except the Tsesarevich. But you will be prepared, so that you can offer complete submission. Do you have questions?”

Yuuri blinks slowly. It is the first time he has been permitted to ask questions. The man is close enough so that he can almost make out his features, but not quite, not in the dim light. “How long?” he croaks. “Can they hear me? See me?”

“No. Only I, and my assistants, will hear and see you. And as long as it takes.”

Yuuri nods, and closes his eyes even as enchanted darkness settles over them. The man pulls the sheet away, exposing his body. He unbinds Yuuri’s legs from the stretcher; other hands, newly arrived, assist him in tying them up again, so his ankles are raised and thighs splayed obscenely wide. Somebody drips more oil onto him, and awakens his cock in several firm, smooth strokes. He whimpers and tenses.

“Yuri,” the man whispers in his ear, pronouncing his name subtly wrong, “It won’t hurt. It will feel good, I promise. You have stepped in my footsteps up until now. I have laid where you lay. Relax, and you will have pleasure.”

What—is this man a consort, too? Yuuri can’t fathom it, how he could be doing this so calmly, if he has indeed gone through it. He must know how it feels, the fear and uncertainty, the humiliation and violation. How could he? “How?” he chokes out, but the man only chuckles. He passes his hands over Yuuri, tugging at the spellwork already laid on him. Yuuri hisses in a breath as a wave of arousal burns through him, settling into a low frisson of unwanted lust, and the man hums in satisfaction.

Yuuri expects them to open him up with their hands, perhaps, or something else slim and easy, but apparently they think his earlier preparation was enough. After he is sufficiently bound and oiled, something large and firm presses against his hole and his breathing quickens.

It’s too cold to be human. A click, a whirr. A machine? Yuuri wishes he could see, but no matter how he turns his head, the magical blindfold remains. His hands clench into fists. He cranes his neck as far as he can, throat still tied down to the stretcher.

“Relax,” the man purrs, and with warm hands weaves a net of enchantment; it settles into Yuuri’s bones, loosening his muscles, making his head drop back down, lolling to the side. He lies limp and panting in his restraints, unable to tense in anticipation. It does nothing to alleviate his fear, though, so his pulse kicks into overdrive and he whines. “First time?” the man asks, rhetorically.

No. But it’s certainly the first time like this. 

No human will take him except his intended, but Yuuri’s not sure that would be worse than this. The machine presses in, slick and smooth, slowly enough that he feels every inch but too fast for him to adjust to its girth. It’s an interminable amount of time before it pauses, leaving him stuffed full, hole twitching around where the thing enters him. He holds his breath, mouth working around words he can’t say.

It stays like that for probably a minute or two, though it feels longer, before sliding out with the same inexorable drag that it came in, leaving just the tip teasing at his entrance. After the fullness, he feels suddenly empty. Not for long, though; it presses back in again, slow, slow. And out, and in, and out, and in, minute by long minute. His cock leaks fluid against his stomach, arousal building up a fraction at a time.

“Ah, haahh,” he groans, softly, unable to stay quiet. Tears gather and trickle down his cheeks unbidden. His legs try to open wider, but his muscles are still artificially relaxed, and the cords yield only a little bit anyway. He bites his lip in frustration, whimpering with another deep push in. When it retreats, he almost wails, inner walls contracting tentatively around something that isn’t there.

A hand brushes, ever so lightly, across the tip of his cock, just as the machine fills him up again. He comes with a helpless cry, shuddering. Seed spurts warm and messy across his belly.

A washcloth wipes the tears from his face and fingers stroke through his hair. “You’re doing well,” the man coos, “I can see why he chose you. You’re so beautiful. Shall we kick it up a notch?”

Yuuri shakes his head, as much as he is able.

“A rest, then.” They leave him impaled on the fake cock, and massage along his arms and legs, ensuring proper blood flow. They do not clean up his mess. They drop slivers of ice into his mouth, and he sucks on them greedily, thirsty for the water.

With a whisper and a lone finger tracing idly down his sternum, the man lifts his spell. Yuuri immediately tenses, jerking his arms and legs against his bonds, and the man clucks disappointedly. “Not quite ready,” so he casts it again, soothing Yuuri’s limbs into complacency.

They start the machine up again, at that same deliberate, awful pace. It takes longer for him to come this time, and they don’t speed the process, letting the work of the machine wash over him until he drowns in it untouched. Neither do they let him rest. As soon as he’s done, the machine speeds up, though he’s hypersensitive and his whimpers are partially from discomfort.

He comes again.

Again. “Such stamina,” the man laughs.

Again, dry, practically painful. His sweat and sticky semen mixes with the oils on his skin, spice and musk. The machine continues, now thrusting at a frenetic pace. He shakes with the effort of lying there and taking it, breath coming out in gasps and feeble moans. He’s too exhausted to react when the spell over his muscles is lifted again.

As long as it takes, the man had said. It seems eternal. His existence has narrowed down to this point in time and space, darkness in his vision, raw overstimulation, helpless pleasure.

Again, and this time, he breathes out a faint whisper. “Please. V-Vi—”

The infernal machine slows, coming to a reluctant stop. When it grinds to a halt, halfway in, he barely notices; he keeps rocking back and forth minutely, as if it were still pushing and pulling at his insides. He fucks himself on the thing in tiny, jagged motions, in counterpoint to his unthinking mewling. There are sparks of pleasure, still, flashing about him with every movement, but his aching flesh lies limp, unable to stir again.

“I think you’re ready,” the man tells him, petting his sweat-soaked hair.

They remove the machine from his body, and he whines when it finally slips out of him, hips twitching as if to fuck himself on air. He hears the tent flaps open, a momentary roar of the audience before they close again. He trembles, anticipatory.

When the tent flaps open again, he hears a familiar voice, cold. “Leave us,” snaps Viktor.

“Will you need assistance—“

“No. Leave us.”

Footsteps fade away, but the only ones Yuuri is interested in come towards him instead. With a wave across his brow the darkness is lifted, and he stares into blue, blue eyes.

“You look,” he manages, “worse than I feel right now.”

Viktor’s lips twitch in momentary laughter before he resumes his open-mouthed frown. It’s true, though—his face is pale and sallow, his eyes bloodshot, lips dry and chapped. His hair falls lank and greasy on his brow. He reaches out to touch, then draws back before he makes contact, uncharacteristically hesitant.

“Aren’t you—“ Yuuri croaks, pausing for breath, “Aren’t you supposed to fuck me now, or something?”

A dam breaks. Viktor’s eyes flood with tears, and he surges forward, frantically tugging at Yuuri’s bonds. “Not—no. Not when you’re like this,” he says, as the red cords fall away and pool at Yuuri’s sides. Yuuri’s arms relax, his legs drop down, no longer pinned and pulled into position. He’s too tired to move, so he watches Viktor move instead. Viktor casts the heavy jewelry aside, throwing it into a pile on the floor. He gathers up the restraints and throws them aside, too. He removes the soft leather cuffs from Yuuri’s wrists, massaging them with a thumb on his pulse points, breathing magic into his veins again. Yuuri sighs as his extra senses flood back through him, tickling at his brain with an understanding of the humidity in the air, the heat signature of the candles, the subtle enchantments woven into the fabric of the tent.

“Don’t think,” Yuuri points out, “You’re supposed to do that.”

Viktor grimaces, and produces out of the folds of his clothing two cuffs identical to the first set, buckling them around Yuuri’s wrists. He stiffens in anticipation of the sudden cutoff, but there’s no magic-suppressing effect. “I am very tired of doing what I’m supposed to do,” Viktor says, when he’s done, and then flings himself over Yuuri’s chest. “Yuuri,” he breathes in his ear, and clings tight.

Weakly, Yuuri raises one hand and pats him on the head.

They lay there for a while, like that, until Viktor tears himself away with visible effort. “Where did they—“ he mutters, “Ah,” and retrieves a cloth and warm water from some corner of the tent. He passes it in gentle strokes across Yuuri’s belly, up his chest, down his arms. Yuuri loses himself in the soft sounds of the cloth being dipped in the water, wrung out, patted on his skin. Candles flicker in the corner of his vision, bright yellow flame. Yuuri flutters his eyes closed when Viktor cleans his face, taking the makeup, glitter and kohl, away. He makes his way downward, wiping sweat and oil and seed from Yuuri’s thighs, hands sure despite the trembling of his lips.

He reaches his ankles, then stops, staring. “Ah, Yuuri,” he exclaims, horrified, “Your feet.”

Yuuri wiggles his toes, free of calluses for the first time in decades. “You don’t like it?”

Viktor shakes his head, and holds them for a while before he resumes his ministrations, cleaning the feet in question with the same care as the rest of Yuuri’s body.

Yuuri feels light and heavy all at the same time, a warm thrill of relief in his heart and sheer exhaustion pulling him down. Strong arms wrap around his back and shoulders, pulling him up to sit. “Clothes,” Viktor says, pulling the plain shirt over his head and arms, helping him step into the loose pants. “And—oh,” he fumbles at his pocket, producing a pair of glasses and slipping them on Yuuri’s face. The world clicks into sharp focus. “Better?”

“Mmm,” Yuuri nods. 

“We have to go out there,” Viktor says, nodding to the tent’s entrance. “Can you—do you want to walk?”

Yuuri spends some time looking at Viktor’s face instead of answering the question. He lifts one finger and trails it along Viktor’s brow, down the lines of his cheekbones. “Yes,” he finally decides.

He ends up mostly leaning on Viktor anyway, legs like jelly and steps uncertain. They make their halting way towards the entrance, and Yuuri braces himself before they step through. He can feel the false smile being pasted on Viktor’s face.

The sounds that greet them are applause, cheers, and uncertain whispering. Yuuri is pretty sure he is not supposed to be walking, or free of jewels and makeup, or dressed in such plain and modest clothing. They are also not supposed to brush past the master of ceremonies without a word and head directly to the exit.

Free of the demands of hundreds of eyes, in the antechamber past the exit door, Yuuri collapses. Viktor catches him. Yuuri smiles, warm and secure, and drifts off into nothingness.


	3. Chapter 3

**_Lady Katsuki Hiroko, co-ruler of the Hasetsu domains_ **

Hiroko falls asleep sometime in the wee hours of the morning, and wakes up before dawn. She dresses, makes herself a cup of tea, and waits.

Toshiya sleeps deeply and easily, and she watches the rise and fall of his chest without seeing it. Mari is in the next room; an array of other, smaller rooms round out the lavishly appointed suite. They are meant for servants. The Katsuki family brought none.

When the sun's rays begin to peek in through the slats covering the wide windows, Hiroko makes her way to the small sitting room at the entrance of the suite. Within ten minutes, the knock comes on the door.

The Rus' servant's eyes gloss over her. "The cook," he demands, in Albian, "The Tsesarevich has need of her."

Hiroko steels herself. Silk on iron. "That is me." It's no lie. Hiroko had not been born into nobility.

"Oh? Come, then, quickly."

He leads her to a kitchen, clearly not large enough to feed the masses of guests at the court but still of impressive size. It is empty of people. "He wants you to make—" the man waves his hand dismissively—"whatever you make for the sick, yes? The kitchen is stocked."

When they had received their summons, the Katsuki family was instructed to bring a cook, for the pleasure of the Rus' court. They have no indication of how long the appointment will last, but for the chance to be near her son, Hiroko will make whatever the Rus' fancy.

The kitchen is indeed well stocked, but the vast array of Yashima ingredients it contains are hardly needed for okayu. While the rice boils, she methodically arranges light toppings—tender green onions, sesame seeds, slivers of seaweed. It is not long before the porridge is plated and set on a tray, which she bears towards the door.

The servant tries to stop her, taking the tray, but she smiles politely and feigns misunderstanding. He gives up and leads her down a twisting maze of hallways, past stoic guards, to a grandly decorated door. The servant raps lightly on it.

It opens in a few moments, with none other than the Tsesarevich himself standing there in distinctly casual clothing. "Dismissed," he says to the servant, then turns to Hiroko with a pleasant smile.

Hiroko is not as impulsive as her daughter, but she briefly considers how satisfying it would be to wipe that smile off his face with a bowlful of lukewarm okayu. Before she can do anything, though, it slips away on its own. "Ah," he says, "Come in," and gestures into a much larger sitting room than hers. The door clicks shut behind them, and he turns her way, head cocked.

"He looks like you," he says, in stilted but fluent Yashiman. Formal, as a man might properly address his future mother-in-law. "The eyes. And, perhaps, the smile."

Hiroko does not smile at him.

"They have not fed him," he continues, "Even after the ordeal; the last few days, just energy." He taps his chest. "Magic, yes?" He nods down at the bowl. "This is good, for that?"

She nods. "We give it to infants. And the old."

"Good, good. I tried, you know, to feed him. A—" he shakes his hand back and forth, frowning. "Drink, for strength? During the first ordeal. But Sara said he refused them." His frown deepens. "He is still sleeping. Very tired. You—want to see him, of course. Come."

The door to the inner rooms is locked; he lays a hand on it, and the familiar chill of ice dusts the air around his fingers before it clicks open. Hiroko has no magic of her own—her children inherited it from Toshiya's side—but she recognizes a standard locking spell, and this is not that. Perhaps only a high-level ice mage can open it.

They step through into a wide, airy space, with gauzy curtains letting in the morning light. Her eyes zero in immediately on her son's sleeping form, dwarfed by the excessively large bed. His face is half-buried in a pillow; he does not stir as she approaches. The Tsesarevich carefully coaxes the tray out of her hands, and says, softly, "Makka!"

A furry brown lump, curled into Yuuri's side, opens one eye and thumps its tail. "Makka," he repeats, and the dog extracts itself from the bed with a huff, leaving a space open at the edge next to Yuuri. "No, not for you," he says, laughingly, then to Hiroko, "Sorry. Dog okay?"

"Yes," she says shortly. "We had one." It was named for you, she thinks viciously. The most talented ice mage in the world. Yuuri idolized you, and this is what you do to him.

She settles in the warm spot left by the dog, carefully stroking her hand through Yuuri's hair. He looks so much older than her memories of him. Seven long years, eaten up by his studies in far-off Colombia, then by the vicious and awful war. She wonders how much the past month has aged him.

The Tsesarevich is silent behind her, so she ignores him, instead cataloguing what she can see of her son's body. He's wearing clothing, at least, seemingly what he had been wearing when he was finally dragged out of that black tent and paraded on the Tsesarevich's arm for all the Rus' court to see. Perhaps it means he hasn't been touched, since. It had taken long enough for the Tsesarevich to take his pleasure last night.

The thin white scar along his right forearm, from a training accident; the knotty lump just under the fringe of his hair, from a slip in the onsen when he was young; even the single piercing in his ear, from when he'd wanted to be just like Viktor Nikiforov; all are gone. It's as if they had wanted to erase his history from his body, leaving him a blank slate to imprint the Rus' customs and desires on. They will try to do the same to Yashima itself: dig at the roots of their culture; teach their children the wrong language; wash away ten thousand years of the past. But Yashima is stronger than that. Yuuri is stronger than that.

His wrists are cuffed, to keep his magic in. They must be, at least for the first few years, she'd had it explained to her. Just in case. Maybe longer for Yuuri, she thinks. He could probably open that lock.

For some time, there is no sound but the occasional jingling of the dog's collar and her son's slow breathing. He wakes slowly, blinking, face scrunched against the sunlight. She has never seen a sight so beautiful.

"Mama?" he asks, timidly.

"I'm here," she says, "Oh, Yuuri-chan. I'm here," and she wraps him in a close embrace as he shakily sits up, rocking him back and forth. He hugs her just as tightly. She cannot control her tears.

"I'm sorry, Mama," he says, against her neck, "I'm so sorry."

She shakes her head, pulling back just enough to see his face, wiping a tear from his cheek with her thumb. "No. You have nothing to be sorry for."

He looks down, before his gaze drifts up and past her. To her surprise, he says something, almost angry, in the harsh and guttural Rus' language. She follows his eyes—to her even greater surprise, the Tsesarevich lifts his hands and responds, looking almost sheepish, then calls to the dog and leaves the room.

She turns back to Yuuri, a question on her lips. "We all learned a little, in the war," he says. "He told me to make sure I eat." He has what is almost a fond smile, for a moment, staring at the door the man exited through, before he turns his attention back on her. "Mama—how are you here? Did he bring you?"

She shakes her head. "They asked for a cook. The best in Hasetsu."

He smiles for real at that. "And who better than my Mama."

"Right."

"Are—Mari and Papa, are they safe?"

She nods. "As much as they can be. They're here, too."

His eyebrows rise. "Here? What—why?"

"They invited us. They wanted us to watch." The invitations had been in both Rus' and Yashiman, for 'an imperial wedding, and the necessary preparations thereof'. Mari had burned hers in a fit of anger.

"Oh." He looks stricken. "Oh, Mama."

She can't help it—she bursts into tears again. They hug, crying into each other's shoulders, until her eyes are gritty and sore. She breaks away with a weak smile. "Well. I suppose you should eat."

The okayu is still warm; the Tsesarevich had placed it on some sort of stasis-table. She feeds him spoonful by spoonful until he turns his head aside. "Sorry, I can't—it's too much." He'd made it through not quite half of the bowl.

"Will he be upset?" she asks quietly. "If it's not finished."

"Vitya? No. Well, yes. But—Mama, Vitya's not going to hurt me."

She stares, hands clenching white on the edges of the tray. "Yuuri. He already has."

He blinks and shakes his head. "No, Mama, that wasn't Vitya."

A cold pit opens up in her stomach. She'd heard, of course, that the Rus' captives were brainwashed, that somewhere between one ritual torture and another something broke inside them. But she'd never believed that Yuuri—her Yuuri—could succumb.

She places the tray back on its stasis-table, hands trembling, and returns to grip his shoulders. He lifts a hand to hers. "Mama—"

" _Yuuri._  Who do you think commands those people?"

"The Tsar. But—"

"And his son, Yuuri, do you think there is anything the Tsar's heir cannot do?"

He laces their fingers together, stroking her thumb carefully as if she is the one who needs to be comforted. "I knew him before this, Mama."

"Yes," she says, dully. "You said you'd met." He had been so very excited. Was that the start? If she'd never let him go abroad, would Viktor Nikiforov have passed over her politically unimportant son and chosen someone else?

"Yes. Mama, I can't—I can't tell you everything. Please believe me. I never meant to cause you pain."

"It isn't you who causes me pain." Not Yuuri, but the worm of a man outside, who thinks he can do what he wants and take what he wants. She thinks back to the shortened third ordeal, the Tsesarevich's claim that he'd tried to give Yuuri sustenance before that. Had it been some carefully plotted manipulation? Training Yuuri to trust the man, the way he'd train a dog.

"You're angry." He looks lost. "Even if—even if you don't believe me, believe that this is the best for our country. They lose nothing more than a second heir to a small province. The Emperor's family is intact."

Hiroko doesn't care about the Emperor's family. They'd pulled the rest of the country into this war. She is selfish—she wants her family to be intact.

The door creaks open, and a silver head peeks in. This time, Hiroko doesn't miss the look of adoration that passes over Yuuri's face. Chills run down her spine, and she swallows, straightening but reluctant to let go of her son's hand. "I should go, perhaps."

Yuuri squeezes her hand. "I will see you soon, Mama."

She nods, then steps away and gathers up the tray.

"The servants can take it," the Tsesarevich says.

"I will take it," she snaps, and brushes past him. The door, she notices, is not locked from the inside.

She does not know the way to the kitchen, but a servant leads her there, and back to her appointed suite. Mari and Toshiya look up in surprise as she enters. "Mama, where have you been?" her daughter cries out.

Hiroko does not respond. She stands, stiffly, among the pretty decorations and elegant vases, unseeing. She picks up the largest and the prettiest, cradling it in her hands, and as Mari startles in shock hurls it against the wall.

When the Rus' servant comes, later that day, to bring them to dinner, she sits primly among the remains of shattered ceramic. "An accident," she says, Mari and Toshiya standing firm behind her.

**_Phichit Chulanont, illusionist and farspeaker of Ayutthaya_ **

Phichit knows he’s damn lucky to have gotten this assignment. He could have been sent anywhere, after all; but he arrived back to Ayutthaya right as the invitation came in, and His Majesty—officially unable to travel on such short notice, but practically unable to travel at all—had asked for him personally.

Phichit is quite talented, if he dares say so himself. His particular set of skills doesn’t always come in combination, and he’s equally adept with both creating the links and forming the images. It's exhausting work, though. He's not used to providing the constant flow of information over such a distance.

The other reason it's hard, of course, is because excessive negative emotion can cloud the stream.

He hasn't seen Yuuri since the war broke out and the other man abruptly left Colombia. He's talked to him once or twice, but it was dangerous for Yuuri—Ayutthaya is and was very friendly with Rus'. Ciao Ciao had caught them, once, broke the connection and lectured Phichit for a solid hour. (Ciao Ciao is originally from Campania. He refuses to go back, now that it's a province of Rus'. He has refugee status in Colombia; he had tried to get Yuuri to stay. That had been a nasty fight.)

Throughout the week, Phichit watches exactly as much as he needs to in order to maintain the stream, glancing away as much as he dares. He can hear the private mutters of His Majesty in the feedback loop. "The Yashima acquit themselves well, as ever," the old man says gruffly. "Pity. But they should have known Rus' wouldn't tolerate their encroachment into Balhae."

He watches Viktor, instead, trying to see what’s changed in the last two years that he’d be willing to put Yuuri through this. He looks like he’s aged more than those two years. He doesn’t smile, except when someone addresses him directly; then, the smile glides onto his face and leaves just as quickly. The only time his expression isn’t bored, fake, or scowling is for a moment as he and Yuuri take their last step out of the auditorium. The sheer relief is evident before the door closes behind them.

With the ordeals over, Phichit suddenly has a lot more free time. Viktor, apparently, has insisted that the court provide a full imperial wedding, not the abbreviated version that the Rus’ usually use for their war-consorts. The festivities will last another two weeks and culminate in a grand ceremony. Until then, Yuuri will be sequestered away somewhere, except when he’s dragged out for some tradition or another. Since Ayutthaya isn’t required to attend all the events, Phichit ends up mostly hanging out with the other farspeakers. It’s fun to commiserate about the ridiculous demands some people with little understanding of farspeaking have; it takes his mind off things.

Phichit is stumbling back, slightly drunk, from one of these unofficial parties when someone nearly crashes into him. “Chulanont! Hey! Just who I wanted to see.”

It’s Prince Jean-Jacques LeRoy of Acadia. “Ah? I’m not sure it’s the proper time of night to speak with His Majesty,” Phichit says politely, “But I can arrange a better time. Tomorrow?”

“No, no, I want to talk to you. You’re not—“ he waves his arms around—“linked up right now, are you?”

Phichit shakes his head. “No?” Not when he’s been drinking. He’d do something stupid and mortally offend his monarch, and then he’d really have to stay in Colombia.

“ _Great!_ ” LeRoy grabs his forearm and half-drags him down the hallway to the much swankier rooms that actual visiting royalty gets. He winks at the Acadian guards outside his door, grinning, and they swing the door open to let them in. “Drink?” LeRoy offers, and Phichit declines. LeRoy sinks down on a couch, and gestures.

A thick wall of air surrounds them, blocking sound. “Never know if we’re bugged,” LeRoy says, “But even Rus’ isn’t rude enough to say anything about it. I do this every time I get in here.”

Phichit remains standing, wary. He doesn’t think there’d be any reason for Acadia to want to offend Ayutthaya, but attacking a farspeaker to send a message to the king sure would do it. “What can I help you with? A call?”

“Nah.” He leans back with a grimace. “You were friends with Katsuki, weren’t you? I saw you two together in Colombia.”

Oh. Huh. Phichit shrugs; it’s not a secret. “Yeah. We studied together under Celestino Cialdini.”

“Right, right. Taught me for a bit, too. Didn’t get along. Whatever.” LeRoy drums his knuckles against his knee. “Hey, does this place seem tense to you?”

Phichit raises his eyebrows. “Rus’ just won a war.”

“ _Yeah_ . Against _Yashima_. Like, no offense to them but Campania’s one thing, y’know? Yashima, people are nervous. But I mean, other than that.”

“We all just watched what happens when Rus’ wins a war.”

“Right, well.” LeRoy narrows his eyes. He’s probably drunker than Phichit, come to think of it. “Kinda much, isn’t it. Like, every guy here is thinking, shit, we piss off Rus’ and that’s gonna be me.” He frowns deeply. “Fucked up. They keep doing shit like this and Colombia’s gonna get antsy. And Albion. And Huaxia. Fuck.”

(Huaxia is, in fact, antsy. Phichit knows because Guang-Hong Ji has loose lips when he drinks. Apparently so does Jean-Jacques LeRoy.)

LeRoy shakes himself. “But, like, does it seem like something’s going on? Something weird. No, don’t tell me. The whole thing’s weird. Anyway! Katsuki. Yuuri Katsuki.” He stares at Phichit intently. “He knew Viktor before this whole mess.”

“They’d met, yeah.”

“You were pretty good friends, right?”

“Yeah.”

“So how well did he know Viktor?” He says it like he already knows the answer. Phichit shrugs, noncommittal.

“They’d met,” he reiterates.

“More than met,” LeRoy frowns. “Do you _know_ how well they knew each other?”

“Do _you?_ ”

“Yeah, look, Chulanont,” LeRoy shifts. “I’m gonna be straight with you, okay? If you gotta run back to Ayutthaya and tell them everything go ahead.” He barrels right along. “They were courting, or something. There were _rings_.”

Phichit finally sits down. “So you do know.”

“Yes! So this is—this is like some petty revenge. The whole thing. The torture, and the bells-and-whistles wedding. Like Katsuki rejected him once, so now he’s got no choice. It’s nuts. I didn’t think Viktor was like this. I didn’t think he bought into the whole system, y’know?”

“Rejected him?” Yuuri had been utterly devoted to Viktor. He’d come back from Acadia— _oh_ —depressed and angry. Phichit had assumed it was because of the failed peace talks, and that _Viktor_ had done something there.

“Yeah, yeah.” LeRoy widens his eyes and tilts his head in a passable imitation of Yuuri. “’Let’s end this.’ Fucked up. But, okay, Chulanont.” He leans in close to Phichit. “You’re Yuuri’s friend. And you’re a farspeaker. I need you to get a message to him.” He fumbles in his pockets, patting them down, until with a flourish he produces a flat, silver token. “And this, if you can.”

Phichit takes the token, examining it. It’s nondescript; there’s no embellishment on either side.

“I want to think I can trust you, okay? You’re a decent guy.”

Phichit looks up. “What is it?”

LeRoy whistles, the air from his mouth swirling across to burnish the surface of the token. Faintly, to Phichit’s sense of magic, the Acadian arcane seal appears and vanishes as quickly.

“I don’t know,” LeRoy says, “If he can ever make it to Acadia. Or at least an embassy somewhere outside of Rus’. But if he does,” he nods to the token, “Look, we’re not going to send him back. Okay?”

Phichit rubs the token between his fingers. “And if I do go running back to Ayutthaya and tell them everything? It would get back to Rus’.”

LeRoy shrugs. “Honestly? I think we’re all already fucked. And I don’t think you will.” He looks glum. “They’re not gonna—they won’t do anything to me right now, Chulanont. Unless they want the entire West Continent and our mutual defense pact on their asses. I mean Dad would be pissed but he’d get it.”

“I see.” Phichit tucks the token away.

“Yeah. Well, you should go. We were just catching up, all right? Old classmates.”

“Right.” Phichit turns at the door. “Thanks.”

LeRoy waves him off, and Phichit wanders back to his room. How he’s going to get in touch with Yuuri, he has no idea. It’s too dangerous to just call, since he doesn’t know where Yuuri is or who’s with him.

Two days later, Phichit catches a break. Yuuri is being formally presented as Viktor’s fiancé; this essentially means that he gets to sit in an audience room and greet both the important members of the Rus’ court and visiting dignitaries, one by one. Those ‘attendees’ represented by farspeakers are scheduled in last. It’s the first time Yuuri’s been seen since the ordeals ended, several days ago.

Phichit doesn’t open up the link until Seung-Gil steps into the room. He casts the set of visual projections, allowing His Majesty to see the door, and greets him respectfully.

Seung-Gil leaves his audience with the same blank, slightly bored expression he always has. If there’s ever an expert at preventing emotional noise in a link, it’s him. Phichit would love a few tips, but he never seems interested in interacting with the rest of them.

The doorman bows respectfully as Phichit passes through. It’s the kind of bow meant not for him, as a young if talented mage, but for the crown he represents. Phichit’s getting used to the dissonance in treatment he receives when he’s streaming and when he’s not, but it still sometimes makes him uneasy.

The room is relatively small and intimate, compared to some of the audience rooms in the palace proper. It isn’t meant for extended audiences, unless the purpose is to make the guest uncomfortable; the only two chairs in the place are occupied. They’re placed on a slightly raised dais, covered in thick red carpet that contrasts with the rich, dark wooden floor. Red drapes of the same color line the walls, alternating with warm magelights. There are four guards, Helvetian, flanking the chairs.

Phichit wonders if they’re there to protect Yuuri, or to ensure he stays there.

Viktor Nikiforov looks regal in gold-trimmed black. He stares down at Phichit without a hint of recognition—no, he doesn’t look at Phichit at all, focusing (as is proper) on the projection. “A warm welcome to our friends in Ayutthaya,” he says smoothly. “Our wishes for your majesty’s continued health.”

Phichit chances a look at Yuuri. He’s visibly healthier than he was, but his presence fades next to Viktor’s. Like Viktor, he’s in traditional Rus’ clothing, clearly tailored to fit a slightly larger person. The drape of the fabric makes him look thin and small. He, too, watches the projection, but his eyes flick briefly to Phichit’s. His hands twist in his lap.

Yuuri apparently is not required to speak; Viktor holds up their end of the conversation quite willingly. Phichit, of course, is not required to speak at all, only facilitate his king’s words. Such a simple task is by now quite easy, and involves little of his concentration. He lets his attention wander back to Yuuri.

Yuuri is tapping with his thumb, subtly, on his knee. Phichit almost doesn’t notice it, but when he does, he recognizes it instantly.

It’s a code, a silly thing they’d come up with nearly five years ago. Back when Phichit couldn’t actually link something so complicated as words or images, just impressions, and Yuuri was still working on pulling ice out of the air. They’d used it to secretly talk to each other when Celestino was watching—later, in crowded public houses, Phichit had used it to send farspoken messages without needing to actually speak.

_Moonrise,_ Yuuri taps out, _Turtledove Room._

_OK_ , Phichit blinks out his reply. He doesn’t dare send it by link, however short.

The Turtledove Room is a tiny sitting room in the palace proper, named for the decorations on its walls. It’s unguarded, and no one notices when he slips in just after moonrise, even without his illusions in place. Yuuri is already there, seated in darkness.

“ _Phichit!_ ” he hisses, when the door clicks shut, and surges upward to catch Phichit in a tight embrace. “It’s good to see you,” he whispers as they pull apart.

“Yeah, you too,” Phichit says, “Oh God, Yuuri. Are you—no, god, of course you’re not okay.”

Yuuri’s eyes flick to the side. “I will be.” He says it in the same tone of voice he uses when trying to master a difficult technique; as if there were no other option possible, and he’s trying to convince himself of that. Phichit swallows. “But don’t—“ he brings his eyes back to Phichit’s with a wry grin—“let’s not talk about me. We know what’s happened with me. How are you? How is Celestino? You must be back in Ayutthaya, then?”

“Ah…” Phichit takes a moment to center himself, to pretend that this is like any other time they might be catching up with each other, until Yuuri’s tentative smile starts to slip. “…Technically, but I bounce around. I’m working, now. Lots of little assignments before this one. Ciao Ciao’s good, he, um,” had parted from Yuuri on a bad note but never stops worrying about him, “still tutors me over link sometimes. I get to see his new students…”

Phichit is good at talking. He considers it a skill, one that he’s honed over the years. He rambles on about everything—Ciao Ciao’s students, the antics of the old-money nobles at court, frivolous farspeaker gossip. He dreams up memories of his pet hamsters and stretches illusory projections of them between his fingers for Yuuri to coo over. He talks about how he’s on the verge of finding sponsors for the exhibition he wants to hold, the first of its kind in Ayutthaya.

Eventually, though, even he can’t chatter the silence away. His words begin to falter. He bites his lip and pinches LeRoy’s token between his fingers, rubbing its smooth surface. Quiet settles over them, moonlight streaking across the floor.

In the calm, Phichit can't help but look at the spellwork laid on his friend, tracing ugly patterns only a caster can see. It’s purely physio, something that interferes with the pathways where his nerves and muscles and bones interact. Nobody can cast a true compulsion, but they can come close.

“Yuuri,” he starts again, tentative.

Yuuri’s noticed where his gaze falls. “Truth,” he says, fingers skittering across his throat, where a particularly gnarled knot of spellwork sits. “A certain susceptibility to further physiologic magic. And obedience.”

“To Viktor,” Phichit says, faintly nauseous.

“To Viktor. And anyone else closely related by blood, of course.” He pauses.“Phichit, will you do something for me?”

Phichit nods. “Of course. Anything.” In that moment, he means it—he’ll smuggle Yuuri out of here and forget the risks to himself and his family, if Yuuri asks for it. If they can make it to open sea, if they can find refuge in neighboring and ferociously independent Suopma, if they can see if Acadia’s promise means anything…

But Yuuri doesn’t ask that. Instead, his gaze drops down to his hands, and for the first time Phichit notices the flash of gold.

“You still have it,” he breathes. He’d recognize his own handiwork anywhere.

Yuuri shakes his head. “This is Viktor’s. Mari has the other.” He toys with the ring, sliding it up and down his finger; it goes easily, obviously sized for a larger hand.

“Oh?” Then Yuuri has a way to contact his family. And if Mari’s reservoir is anything like her brother’s, they can contact him back. But Viktor would know, of course—why would he give Yuuri his ring in the first place?

“I need you to take it from her,” Yuuri continues, “and get it to Michele Crispino.”

“Crispino?” Phichit splutters, then latches onto the first thing he thinks of. “He’s not a caster, Yuuri, he wouldn’t be able to say anything back.”

“I know. That’s okay.” He hesitates, and asks, “Do you think you could make more?”

“…How many more?” Something like dread mixed with excitement rises in his stomach.

“A lot. Not necessarily rings. Just…the concept.”

The concept. Objects that allow other casters to filter their own power through the framework of farspeech. When he'd come up with it, Phichit had been thrilled, dreaming of an infinitely connected world. But he'd gotten caught up in other things, and his work had fallen by the wayside: the rings were the only pair he'd ever successfully enchanted. He swallows, already thinking of the ways he can improve them, the tradeoffs to make for weaker casters to be able to use them…

He's left Yuuri waiting. “Yes,” he says. “Yes, I could.”

“As many as you can. You know Nekola?”

The artificer? Phichit nods.

“To him. He’ll pay, of course.” Yuuri settles back, some tension Phichit hadn't noticed bleeding away. He smiles. “Thank you.”

Phichit shakes his head, confused. “Anything,” he repeats.

They part with a tight hug. Before he leaves, Phichit presses LeRoy’s token into Yuuri’s hand. His forehead crinkles. “What’s this?”

“Acadia,” Phichit says. “They'll take you in.”

“Acadia.” He can see the gears turning in Yuuri’s head, calculating. “Huh.”

He leaves Phichit standing alone, feeling suddenly very lost.


	4. Before

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> …Viktor is never as sneaky as he thinks he is…

**_Captain Christophe Giacometti, Helvetian mercenary_ **

The theatre was small, dark, and smelled faintly of smoke. Red velvet curtains had seen better days; the gold paint on the railing was flaking away, and although it had been hastily cleaned before their arrival dust stubbornly remained in its deeply carved recesses. The place was only about half full, and the patrons that were there seemed less than enthralled. Even the cherubs perched above the stage looked bored. Chris shifted in his seat, sighed, and took a long, deliberate pull from his drink.

Technically he wasn’t supposed to be imbibing; he was on a job, after all, and he’d sent nearly everyone else away to enjoy themselves. But postings with Viktor were easily the cushiest jobs he got. He was pretty sure Viktor hired him (and his entire company!) more for companionship than for protection. It wasn’t like he needed it. It would take a suicidal assassin to target the man; he had a more impressive array of protective wards than anyone besides his notoriously paranoid father. 

(Chris had once joked that even if Viktor really needed a hundred men to satisfy him, it would be cheaper to hire out escorts. Viktor had given him a mildly patronizing look and said, “I’m required to travel with a retinue these days. It might as well involve people I don’t mind spending time with.”)

For the life of him, Chris couldn’t figure out why they were here. The part of Colombia they were in wasn’t particularly fun, for one. The show itself was a motley mess of assorted acts, ranging from the dreadfully boring (an illusionist projecting a lovingly crafted but dull vision of a single, leafless tree) to the dreadfully disgusting (a physiologic caster demonstrating the process of digestion in a disembodied pig stomach) to the simply dreadful (a fire mage barely able to conjure a puff of smoke). It was put on by the nearby university, apparently, a fundraiser featuring their students and meant to benefit youth arts programs. If this was the local talent, Chris wasn’t particularly inclined to support said youth.

Viktor wasn’t historically the sort to do much in the way of philanthropy, though when asked to pay for their tickets he’d thrown what was probably an obscene amount of currency at the poor clerk. It had made her eyes widen, anyway, and gotten them seats in a private box that probably hadn’t been used for years. And what was actually fairly decent alcohol.

Even Viktor didn’t seem to be paying much attention, honestly. “Bored?” Chris asked, somewhat hopefully. It was almost intermission, a good time to leave.

“Not bored,” Viktor replied, one hand supporting his cheek and the other absently stirring his drink.

“Okay,” Chris said, “But I still don’t understand why you came all the way to Colombia just to watch some poorly done magic when there are plenty of young aspirants in Rus’. Or Gallia, if you wanted to get out of the country.” 

Viktor shrugged. “Change of pace.” His hand dropped down to pet Makkachin, who would normally not be allowed in the theatre except that she was Viktor Nikiforov’s dog and was thus allowed pretty much anywhere. Her tail thumped, but the sound was drowned out by actual applause as the next performer came on stage.

“…Say, is that Yuuri?” Chris peered down with a grin. “The little Yashima boy? Wow, does he look grown up. I haven’t seen him since last year—“

“Shh,” Viktor hushed him, suddenly alert and focused. “He’s about ready to go.”

“ _I_ _’_ _ll_ say—“ Chris’ grin widened as he took in Yuuri’s costume, something sleek and black and oddly familiar, with a fine mesh offering glimpses of skin and a tantalizing hint of red around his waist.

“Shh!”

Chris shut up as the accompanists began to play. The music was sultry and invigorating, the kind of piece more expected of a fire mage, but as Yuuri’s hands slid seductively down his body and the first filigree of ice spread across the stage, he found himself captivated.

Chris had once dabbled in balletic casting, mostly because Viktor had done it. The combination of dance and spellwork took a great deal of concentration and coordination; it was different for every discipline, but the essentials were the same. It was historically popular to incorporate elements of it in battlecaster training, as the precise combination of physical and mental effort was difficult to simulate anywhere else. 

Yuuri was apparently very good at it. He lifted himself effortlessly off the ground upon a rising spiral of ice, simultaneously sweeping arches and curves to frame himself on the stage and summoning a light shimmer of snow to highlight the lines of his body. The shift and crack of internal faces in the emerging structures caught the surrounding magelights, reflecting back blues and greens to round out a perfect quad-layer spell. He hung, suspended, for a brief moment before bringing the whole array back to himself in an implosion of glittering ice dust.

One display morphed seamlessly into the next, and Chris flicked his eyes to his seatmate. Viktor was utterly enraptured, lips parted, an expression of longing set upon his face.

The performance was over too quickly. With a crescendo of strings, Yuuri spun into his last pose, flushed red and holding himself in a lover’s embrace. The audience sat, speechless, for a few seconds before breaking into raucous applause.

“Wow,” Chris said, “What’s he doing here? He could get a job with a real dance company.” He turned to Viktor, expecting him to share in his amusement, but Viktor was already halfway out of his seat. Chris, alarmed, followed him as he and Makkachin practically ran out the back of the box.

Viktor could charm his way into anywhere; they weren’t even stopped as they made their way down into the performer’s area. Viktor skidded to a halt outside a private dressing room, smoothed back his hair, and knocked.

“Just a minute,” a muffled voice called out, and they waited in the hallway until the door opened a crack. “Who—oh!”

Makkachin, unwilling to wait any more, had barreled right through the door and jumped on the person within. Yuuri Katsuki, still in his costume, lay on the floor laughing as the dog licked him enthusiastically. Viktor stepped in the room, and Chris followed, closing the door behind them, distracted by the look on Viktor’s face. 

He was smiling. He looked genuinely happy.

“ _Off_ , Makka,” Yuuri finally ordered, pushing her aside and sitting up. He looked up at Viktor, a faint tinge of pink across his cheeks. “You made it? I told you, you didn’t have to come to _this_.”

Viktor leaned down toward him. “Of course I made it.” He held out a hand for Yuuri to take, and pulled him back up to standing. His thumb stroked along the back of Yuuri’s hand as he immediately broke into an array of criticisms. “Your last combination was sloppy, I’m surprised you didn’t break off the flow. Stop scraping from the top of your reservoir to cast, it takes more energy and makes you look like a much weaker mage than you actually are, you have the depth so use it…”

Chris stood awkwardly by the door, dumbfounded, while Viktor lectured and Yuuri nodded along. Eventually Viktor trailed off, apparently content to just stare into the younger man’s eyes. “Dinner?” he asked. “I have a private room reserved at the Grand Palazzio. They’re very discreet,” he added, when Yuuri looked doubtful.

“You spoil me,” Yuuri replied, eyes narrowed.

“No, no, I spoil myself, you’re simply along for the ride. You can’t say no, _Yuu_ ri.”

Yuuri smiled fondly and shook his head. “I’ll catch up to you, then. Go on ahead and let me change.”

“Right! Oh, wait, you’ve met Chris, haven’t you?”

Chris gifted Yuuri with a warm smile. “Yes,” he purred, as Yuuri flushed—presumably from memories of how, exactly, they had met. Aw. He was shy.

“Ah, briefly,” he said.

“I’d love to get to know him better,” Chris continued, sincerely, looking him up and down. The costume did very little to hide Yuuri’s best features.

“Mmm, well, we should go!” Viktor said hastily, and practically bounced out of the room. Chris took one last glance at Yuuri before following.

They returned to the hotel in record time. “I won’t need you the rest of the night,” Viktor told Chris, “Go off and do whatever. If you eat here put it on my tab.”

Well, Chris knew when he wasn’t wanted. He felt a slight twinge of guilt at leaving his charge, but it wore off quickly enough. He stayed out late, and sauntered back with little worry. His room was essentially the lobby for Viktor’s, so he kept quiet, though he heard no sounds from the other room.

Then the door from the hallway opened and Viktor stepped through.

“Alone?” Chris asked, leaning back with arms crossed as Viktor startled and looked up at him. “Aren’t you sleeping with him, then?”

To his surprise, Viktor flushed slightly and shook his head. “I don’t want to rush him.”

Chris dropped his smug demeanor and uncrossed his arms. “Viktor, you’re not actually—you’re not in love with the boy.” But he already knew the answer, as Viktor’s silence stretched out between them. “You know you can’t—“

“I know,” Viktor snapped, “I don’t need you telling me this. I know.” He was quiet again, then, hollowly, “I’m reminded of it every time they parade me out at some ball. Every time they introduce me to some newly-debuted _child_ with wide hips or the right family line. I know it, Chris. More than you do.” Jealousy bled out through the last sentence. “Let me be happy for a little while.”

“And what if someone finds out?”

“What if?” Viktor snapped. “I’m tutoring him. That’s all they need to know. The Tsar won’t be upset at _that_ —I’m keeping up my skills. Balletic casting transfers quite well to the battlefield,” he snarls, lips twisted. “As you well know.”

So Chris spent the next months keeping his mouth shut in the hopes Viktor would get over it. One day, Viktor would have to marry someone of the right sort, and Yuuri was not that. 

But Viktor kept arranging his intermittent, clandestine meetings, and came back from one with a plain gold ring on his finger. “Oh, just a good-luck charm,” he dismissed it, even as he showed off how it sparkled in the light.

Later, even through the war, Viktor never took the ring off.

 

**_Prince Jean-Jacques LeRoy, heir to the throne of Acadia_ **

JJ had had a hell of a day.

He really wasn't one for political maneuvering. He was popular with his own people, relying on his natural charm to smooth over any missteps. Except for a few stuffy old conservatives, the country was excited about his impending marriage to Isabella—no noble, but the heir to the powerful Yang merchant empire. His parents were usually pretty happy to let him be; they didn't tend to force him to attend too many diplomatic meetings, figuring he'd get into it more as he got older.

Acadia was pretty friendly with their southern neighbor—he'd studied there for a while, actually—and while they got into squabbles with their trade partners from time to time, they'd pretty much only get dragged into a war if one of their close allies did. Right now, however, they were serving as a neutral site for a conference between Yashima, Rus', and their vassal states. War had been brewing in that part of the world for a while. In general, though Acadian manufacturing could profit in the short term, it would upset the balance of world power if Rus' managed to overpower Yashima. The other way around would actually be better, but unlikely. And if it went on long enough, there'd be no guarantee that neighboring countries, some of whom were Acadian allies, wouldn't get pulled into the whole affair.

His dad wasn't able to be there for the conference, since he had an important meeting of his own with the Presidents of Colombia and Anáhuac. His mom was unexpectedly sick. She was still there by way of farspeaker, but JJ had been shoved into the role of host and mediator. It wasn't going well. The Tsar himself was here, along with his son, and he tended to roll right over the rest of the attendees. Yashima's Emperor would wait for him to finish, then skewer him with carefully polite words. They were nowhere near to reaching an acceptable solution, and JJ and his advisors could only offer so much in the way of advice. Frankly, he was worried they'd come to blows in the middle of one of the meetings.

He had an hour or so of breathing room, though, before he had to go back inside and prepare for a formal dinner where he'd get to sit between the two bickering heads of state and try to make peaceful conversation. God, he wished his dad or mom were actually here. His advisors could help out in official meetings, but not with small talk.

He headed to his favorite garden maze, one he knew like the back of his hand. It was where he'd proposed to Isabella, on a perfect spring day (and if he'd manipulated the breezes that day to ensure that was the case, nobody had noticed). It had a little gazebo in the center, with a pond and trees curving over for shade. He could take a walk there, free of guards and obligations for just a little while.

The pathway to the center of the maze was twisty and confusing if you'd never seen it before. JJ walked it quickly, though, slowing only when he heard voices coming faintly through the hedge. His first reaction was to be annoyed. The Acadian royal gardens were free and open to the public, of course, but he liked this one particularly because most people didn't go here.

Then he recognized one of the voices. He narrowed his eyes and backed up, doubling around to another branch of the maze. It led to an alcove, separated from the center by a single hedge. If you knew where to look, you could peek through.

It took hardly any effort to amplify the voices for his ears alone. Viktor Nikiforov didn't notice, and neither did the Yashiman man who stood across the little gazebo from him. JJ vaguely recognized him—he wasn't a particularly important member of the delegation, but he'd faithfully attended the meetings as part of the Emperor's retinue. JJ had seen him before in Colombia. Probably why he was here right now. Yuuri, that was it. Yuuri Kat-something.

Yuuri's arms were crossed. He looked upset. JJ couldn't really blame him, given the events of the day.

"Yuuri," Viktor said, pleadingly, "Please let's just forget this, let's just pretend, for a little while. I'm doing my best." Conveniently for JJ, he spoke in Albian.

"Are you?" Frost was curling around Yuuri's feet, inching up the pillars of the gazebo. "Because from where I'm standing, it doesn't look like you're doing a damn thing."

Viktor had, indeed, been mostly silent today. He'd spoken out yesterday, but the Tsar had been visibly angry.

"I'm talking to him, Yuuri."

"Oh?"

"I can't contradict him. Not in public. Do you know what he said to me yesterday?" His voice takes on a deeper tone. "You're not irreplaceable, Vitya. You wouldn't be the first." It reverts to his former tone. "Hell, he'd probably prefer if Yurio were next in line."

JJ cringed. He couldn't imagine his own dad saying such a thing to him, no matter how badly he screwed up.

"It's not like you're talking the Emperor down," Viktor continued.

"I'm not his _son_ ,” Yuuri interrupts. “I'm nobody. He wouldn't notice if Hasetsu disappeared off the map tomorrow. I'm only here because I was conveniently close by." Yuuri looked away, fiddling with the ring on his finger. Viktor looked abashed. The silence was tense, chilly.

"Viktor." Yuuri looked back up, voice steady. "Let's end this."

JJ had never before seen Viktor Nikiforov cry. Apparently neither had Yuuri. Viktor jerked back when Yuuri approached, though, shaking his head as tears pooled.

"It doesn't have to be this way," he said, "Yuuri—"

Yuuri retreated with crack of ice. "No? Viktor, can you promise me that we won't be at war in the next six months? That you won't be leading battalions against my homeland in nine? That your mages won't be firebombing our ports and farmland? Shall I ask Celestino for stories of what happened to Campania? Or Bohemia? Lechia?"

Viktor was silent, and his silence told everything.

"And if that does happen," Yuuri pressed on, "Will you break it off then? Or shall one of us turn traitor? I can tell you it's not going to be me." His tone turned deliberately cruel, biting. "If I meet you on the battlefield, Viktor, if it's a choice between my people and you, I won't hesitate to stab you through the heart." 

Viktor's eyes clenched shut. When he reopened them, his gaze was haughty and cold. “I suppose you already have, Lord Katsuki,” he said. “Is that all, then?” He gestured to the exit.

Yuuri looked like he wanted to say something else, but instead brushed past Viktor, striding off into the rest of the maze.

After Yuuri left, Viktor sat abruptly, as if his legs had collapsed out from under him. He brought his lips to the gold ring on his hand, tears leaking once again from his eyes. JJ watched as rime spread from the surface of the metal across the ground, creeping across the surface of the pond until it froze over.

That night, a visibly intoxicated Viktor had a shouting match in thick, furious Rus' with his father in the middle of the formal dinner. He was on a transport back to Rus' the next day. 

The diplomatic talks did not get better.

 

**_Grand Prince Yuri Nikolayevich Plisetsky, heir apparent to Tsesarevich Viktor Nikiforov_ **

The Yashima soldiers huddled warily against one side of the cave. There weren't that many of them; Yuri figured they could have taken them, easy. But Viktor had shaken his head and said, airily, "The real danger is outside. A truce?"

So here Yuri was, weaving nets of warmth along the walls to benefit their enemies. Viktor was outside with the Yashima commander, also an ice mage, also improbably named Yuri, building a blockade out of snow and ice at the cave mouth to keep the wind from howling in and destroying all of Yuri's hard work. The Yashima would keep warm for the rest of their lives, he thought bitterly, if he just burned them all instead. But he wasn't about to gainsay Viktor. 

The snowstorm was unseasonal, unnatural; the result of excessive use of magic in the area, sucking the energy out of the land much faster than it could be replenished. Increasingly powerful spells levied against one army or another were hastening the rate of strange events; weather systems spontaneously forming, animals going insane, people getting lost in familiar places and wandering to their death. It was happening in Yashima territory, since by now most of the fighting occurred there; it normally served the Rus' quite well. Except, for instance, when they got stuck in a snowstorm without their winter gear.

Yuri finished his casting and rolled his eyes out toward the cave entrance. Viktor was taking his sweet time. Probably there was no chance the other Yuri could overpower him, starved and on the run as most of the Yashima pigs were. The end of the war was lingering on, though; just when the Rus' thought they could take a village or ambush a garrison, they found the place empty and anything important taken. There was some sort of mole with access to their troop movements. Nobody had found them yet, but the penalty for such treason was harsh.

Just in case, though, Yuri bundled himself up in an insulating layer of warm air and stepped outside the cave.

He peered around, seeing a mostly finished blockade and no sign of Viktor or other-Yuri. His eyes narrowed, and he inched towards the lone open part, keeping his back against the snow wall.

He saw them almost instantly, outside the blockade—the patch of ground where no snow fell, turned aside by their power. Filigree patterns on the snow that was already there, unmarred by their boots. They stood apart, looking out at the whiteout conditions.

"When the storm lets up," Viktor was saying, in Albian, "We'll leave rations for you. We have plenty, and resupply coming."

Yuri suppressed a hiss. What?! It was bad enough to have this temporary truce, but at least Viktor had made the point that it would be easier to survive with the assistance of the Yashima mages. No way was Yuri giving up their food after the storm had passed.

But other-Yuri shook his head. "I can't. They'll question where it's coming from."

Oh. Well, if he didn't want the rest of the Yashima knowing, perhaps other-Yuri was an informant. They had a few, even among the notoriously proud Yashima nobility. And it would make sense that Viktor wanted to keep him alive, if that was the case. Other-Yuri had a farspeaker with him; he could have told Viktor about the cave, though Yuri had assumed they'd merely been lucky.

Viktor sighed. "Well. At least it's nice, tonight. Coexistence."

Other-Yuri looked down. "The Tsesarevich and his heir, both here. I should kill you in your sleep."

It's what Yuri would do, if he had the heirs to the Yashima Empire in the same damn cave as him. He could appreciate the sentiment.

"Yes. You should," Viktor agreed. They made no move towards violence, though.

"We're losing," other-Yuri whispered; Yuri almost missed it over the howling of the wind. "Badly."

 _Yes_ , Yuri thought, _you are_. It would be nice if someone in charge on the Yashima side would admit it, and then they could all go home.

Viktor didn't say anything in response, though, just shifted his weight back and forth on his heels.

"They're going to make you choose someone, aren't they." 

He nodded. "I'm getting too old to avoid it. Only if we win, though."

"Vitya—"

He shook his head violently. "I don't want to think about it, Yuuri."

The expression on other-Yuri's face is shadowed as he turns to Viktor. "Please think about it."

"Yuuri—no. You don't understand. They'll torture you. They'll—" Viktor's mouth writhed in a moue of disgust. Rape him, Yuri thought. He imagined the man's face, panting, flushed, legs spread and kneeling, shapely thighs trembling, and suppressed an unexpected moment of lust, disgusted at himself. "No. Please stop."

"Think about it."

Viktor made fists out of his hands. The winds around the two of them grew stronger.

Other-Yuri stepped closer to him, and Yuri braced himself to run out and defend Viktor. He could take him by surprise—he'd done it before. He couldn't forget, the look on the man's face as unquenchable fire took him, raced up his flesh from behind.

But other-Yuri's hands were gentle on Viktor's face, and pulled him down into a deep kiss. They stood there in each other's arms, clinging tightly.

Had Viktor seduced all of his spies, or was this one special?

Viktor whispered something into other-Yuri's ear, and Yuri leaned into the sound, catching the tail end. "…in three days. Two hundred, fresh from the north. Mostly non-magical infantry, with fire support and an illusionist. They have orders to rush to Edo, so they'll be unlikely to try and hunt anyone down. And that contingent from before are doubling back again."

Yuri stood frozen in disbelief. Viktor wasn't getting information from the pig. He was giving it. Freely. Not the kind of useless or outdated information they fed to spies but real troop movements.

Disgrace. Death by exposure in Traitor’s Square. Yuri would be Tsesarevich, one way or another—if enough soldiers turned out to be more loyal to Viktor than to his father, it would be civil war. He swallowed back a sudden urge to vomit.

Yuri had to kill the pig. Remove the temptation. He should—he should. 

He saw the face of the Yashima soldier again, mouth open in a rictus of agony, fat popping and sizzling. Viktor had smiled, wide and fake, and told him, "It gets easier, Yura."

He could stab him instead. Something about the sword seemed much cleaner. He wished he were like Viktor, could simply freeze a man's blood in his veins. They died instantly.

He almost missed it when the pig broke away from Viktor, and flattened himself against the wall as he walked by. Thankfully, the pig didn't notice him, stepping past him into the cave, probably to the relief of the rest of the Yashima. 

Yuri moved to follow him, but found his feet frozen to the ground and his warming spell stripped away. Viktor stood in front of him as his teeth began to chatter. He stared up at his shark-like grin, uncomfortably conscious of Viktor's hands numbing his wrists.

"Yuratchka," Viktor purred. "Come out to get a breath of fresh air?"

They called him the Ice Demon of the North, but Yuri had never seen that look directed at himself before. Viktor looked otherworldly, eerie. Yuri couldn't control his shivering.

"What—" he caught his breath. "What the hell are you doing, Viktor?"

Viktor looked down at him. "You'll understand when you're older. For now—" He shrugged lightly. "Don't worry about it, hmm? Brr, it's cold out here." 

Viktor didn't get cold. The threat was implicit.

Long after Viktor let him go, casually finished the blockade with a sweep of his arm, and stepped inside, Yuri stood there shaking.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this took longer than expected! Thanks for being patient.
> 
> Warnings for this chapter: some people being nasty incl. mention of habitual rape, consent issues later on where one character believes they're okay with something and quickly finds out they're not (but they talk about it and don't continue).

**_Tsesarevich Viktor Fyodorovich Nikiforov, heir to the Tsardom of Rus_** ** _’_**  

Chris is guarding Yuuri.

Chris is guarding Yuuri, and that should make Viktor feel better. There’s no good reason for the uneasy buzz in his stomach, the tenseness in the air that makes his skin prickle. Chris is competent, steady, and loyal. And if it comes down to it, Yuuri can protect himself.

(He won’t.)

Viktor has insisted on the entire array of pomp and tradition that can be afforded to a wedding at his station. The time and distraction of the hasty preparations along with the extra two weeks of celebration give him a reason to extend his stay in the capital, a set date for leaving, and a chance to speak with foreign contacts who might not otherwise have attended. Still, that means the couple aren’t allowed to see each other the day before the ceremony, even if Yuuri’s been staying in Viktor’s rooms the entire time. He’d been spirited away this morning, before Lady Katsuki could even appear with his breakfast.

It’s the first time in over a week that Viktor hasn’t known exactly where Yuuri is and who he’s with. Some overzealous soldier could be doing anything to him right now, independently or on order of the Tsar. 

But _Chris_ is guarding Yuuri. The Helvetians have always been more loyal to Viktor than to his father. Yuuri will be fine.

(Yuuri isn’t fine. Yuuri insists that the curtains be left open to let the light in. Yuuri is clingy, but flinches away from unexpected touch. Yuuri has shuddering, choking panic attacks, crouched low in the washroom in the middle of the night.)

Viktor wonders if this creeping fear, dragging him down all the dark paths his mind can conjure up, is the way Yuuri feels all the time.

Tonight is the paired set of feasts, where the couple is split apart to enjoy (or endure) one more night alone. Traditionally, those closest to each groom—family, friends—stay with them in one banquet hall or the other, and the more general guests pass freely between the two. But tonight there will be no intermingling, and Yuuri’s side will be strange and awkward. He will have his family there, and the rest of the Yashima delegation (including the new Empress, who continues to be styled as such only because the Tsar enjoys saying he rules over emperors and kings). They will have no feast, but a quiet, private dinner, surrounded by Rus’ guards disinclined to let them talk. Chris and the rest of Yuuri’s guard will be there, too, officially as much to ensure his compliance as his safety.

Yuuri was not looking forward to it last night. He’s probably out of his mind today.

In forty-eight hours, though, the whole affair will be over. Viktor will take him on a grand tour of the empire, ending up far away from the court in a small wintering palace. They’ll spend a good few months on the trip, renewing ties with old friends, inspecting garrisons. Yuuri will play his part, doe-eyed and quiet. Lords will report to the Tsar how well he’s taken to his new role, how happy and interested Viktor is in the affairs of the empire at large. If they disappear for a few days here and there, if Viktor speaks more with the young and the merchants than he does with the established nobility, if he treats Yuuri more like a high-born Rus’ Prince Consort than a war prize; well, Viktor has well-known eccentricities. At last, they’ll return to the court, with everything set in place.

It will take time. It has taken time, since the tide of the war turned irrevocably one way and the first seed of an idea planted itself, small and terrible, in Viktor’s brain.

For now, he is all smiles as he receives the last fitting on his wedding clothes. He chats with the tailors, winks at the guards, smiles at the beauty of the jewels on the rings and crown he’ll wear.

(They are nothing compared to the beauty of jewels made of sculpted ice, a carefully crafted tiara of roses Yuuri had once, laughing, placed on his hair.)

That task finished, he takes Makkachin for a jog. She tries to soothe him, leaning up against his legs and sending him tiny waves of happiness and calm. Like most of the Rus’ imperial kennel, she is distantly descended from the divine dogs that once guarded Urartu warriors; her heritage is obvious in her long lifespan, empathy, and mildly medicinal saliva. Even Makka’s wide eyes and lolling tongue, though, aren’t enough to quell the turmoil that snakes around his limbs, and some of his despondency has worn off on her by the time they get back.

He’s surprised to find someone waiting for him when they return to his rooms, leaning idly against the locked exterior entrance. It’s Andrei Vladimirovich, one of his father’s advisors; they’ve never gotten along. “Your Imperial Highness,” he says with a perfunctory bow, “His Imperial Majesty requests your presence. Now.”

Viktor gives him a pleasant smile. “Of course,” he says, “Let me take Makka in and clean up. It wouldn’t do for him to see me all sweaty, hmm?”

Andrei doesn’t budge. “Your current attire will be satisfactory. And I’m sure an attendant can take care of the dog.”

Given no real option, Viktor sends Makka off to find one of the servants—she’s certainly smart enough to—and accompanies Andrei. He has no doubt that the choices of venue (the large, ostentatious, overwhelming throne room) and timing (so that Viktor will show up in informal, rough clothing) are entirely intentional.

The Tsar sits alone on the dais, raised high enough so that even a man of Viktor’s height has to look up towards his feet. In the seat below and to the right sits Yura, scowling. Another statement—that’s Viktor’s seat, when the Tsesarevich is to participate in an audience. Yura has filled in before, but it’s abnormal for what should be a relatively informal situation.

“Vitka,” the Tsar greets him, after he gives the customary bow. “I suppose I should congratulate you on your upcoming nuptials.”

“Thank you,” Viktor responds, with a disarming and entirely false smile.

The Tsar smiles tightly. “I said I _should_ , not that I will. Precision, Vitka. This inability to deal with the nuances of language will not serve you well.”

It’s a familiar, well-worn criticism, so Viktor keeps his mouth shut. The Tsar lets him stand there for a long minute, eyes raking up and down his figure, before speaking again.

“I indulge you now because you have managed to act like a mature adult in the course of this war, rather than a selfish child,” he says. “You should be careful not to overstep your bounds.”

“Of course not,” Viktor agrees.

“I allow this little farce to go on. But I will lay out my expectations for you, and you will listen.

“First: I can see you have some amount of infatuation with the Yashima boy. I don’t mind that. Lord knows I’ve had my share of dalliances. And he has some—lovely assets.” He leers. Viktor’s lips tighten around his pasted-on smile. “But as much as you may pretend otherwise now, he is no Prince. He is your concubine. You will take what you want from him and, when you’ve indulged your fancies, you will seek out a proper Rus’ consort. Preferably someone with a womb, to continue the line. Understood?”

Viktor inclines his head. “Of course, father. I wouldn’t imagine anything else.”

The Tsar snorts. “I’m sure. Second: if I see that you are getting restless or laying aside your duties—to be frank, if you simply do something I _don_ _’_ _t like_ , there are plenty of places to send you to bleed out that excess energy. And a war zone is perhaps not the place for your boy, hmm? He would be much safer here at court.”

The threat to Yuuri, and Viktor, is clear.

“Understood,” Viktor says.

“Be sure that it is.” The Tsar stares down at him, as cold and impersonal as he always has been. Viktor thinks, not for the first time, that his father should have been the ice mage; but then, maybe he needs his physiologic magic to force his shriveled heart to beat. “Don’t be so dour, you’re getting what you want. You’re dismissed,” he says with a wave of his hand. “I’ll have a chat with your boy now. See what you see in him, besides his pretty brown eyes.”

Something in Viktor’s throat clenches. Yuuri, here, alone, at the whim of his father and Yura. Ensorcelled to obey their wishes as much as he is Viktor’s, compelled to tell them truths or quite literally choke on his lies. And Yura—Yura _knows_. Chris will be helpless to intervene.

Viktor makes as if to protest, only to catch the faint glimpse of a smirk on his father’s face. His jaw clamps shut. “There have been rumors of dissension in Alatau,” the Tsar says idly. “We could make an example of them, to the other provinces.”

Viktor could almost laugh. His father misses the brief flash of fury on Yura’s face, but it doesn’t pass Viktor by. The boy won’t take well to the homeland of his favorite new military officer being threatened—for that alone, he’ll keep his mouth shut. The Tsar’s misstep is, to Viktor, a warm swell of relief.

Viktor smiles, once again composed. “If need be,” he acquiesces. Before he turns to leave, though, he pauses. “Father,” he says, perhaps too bold, “They’re starting to call you mad.”

“Vitka,” the Tsar responds, low and growling, “If I go down, you go down with me.”

Viktor bows, short and shallow, and walks out with quick steps.

\--

Later, he curses his impulsiveness as he paces back and forth in his rooms. Makka whines from her place on the bed. It’s not the time or place to antagonize the Tsar, not when they’re so close to—not freedom, exactly, but some sort of relief. Not when the man’s with Yuuri, looking at Yuuri, talking to Yuuri, maybe touching him, or worse; not when the Tsar has always made it very clear that whatever is Viktor’s is really just his father’s.

The roiling dread in his belly just gets worse in the horrible hours before he has to prepare for the feast. He’s good at projecting confidence—arrogance—but he knows his position is tenuous. Handing over an entire country to his father guarantees nothing, after all. And if something happens to Viktor, then Yuuri…

With all this, he’s already in a bad mood when he gets to the feast. He goes through the motions of merriment, eating and drinking. Mostly drinking. His father would disapprove, but the Tsar isn’t here (and people notice _that_ , Viktor’s sure).

The hand that claps on his back to break him out of his thoughts is too familiar, and he turns his head to find Konstantin Petrovich grinning at him. A man of his father’s generation, gone somewhat to seed. He’d been a nearly constant presence in Viktor’s early childhood before stepping out of the political spotlight.

“I have to admit to some jealousy! You’ve got yourself a lovely one.” He winks, breath puffing out with a heavy whiff of alcohol. “I’m sure you’ve had a good time with him already." 

“I do enjoy his company.” It’s not a lie, but he knows how Konstantin will take it.

“Ha! Well, a bit of free advice.” He leans in a little too close. “Don’t rely too much on the spells. They don’t get you anything but the body.” One long finger taps at his forehead. “You have to get them in here. You know what I did? My little pet, he didn’t get to eat all day, he didn’t get to drink, until I came home and used his pretty mouth.” He steps back and takes a swig of his drink. “Didn’t take long before he was just gagging for it! Ha!”

And suddenly, Viktor remembers; the dead-eyed man who’d trailed after Konstantin, sometimes, head tilted down, too timid to look anyone else in the eye. He’d been ignored by most and leered at by the rest. He’d died young. Viktor doesn’t know where he’d been from; he doesn’t even know his name.

“I don’t think,” Viktor says carefully, hand clenching around his wineglass, “That will be necessary.”

Konstantin laughs. “I’m sure! I hear those Yashima are used to taking orders from their betters, eh?”

Viktor grits his teeth. “I suppose.”

The man’s narrow little neck is saved by the intervention of Mila, who steps between them with a smile. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to steal my cousin,” she says disarmingly. “You don’t mind.” She doesn’t wait for him to answer before turning to Viktor. “Shall we dance?”

He nods, and holds out a hand. She raises one elegant eyebrow at the glass still in his other hand, and he makes to set it down, noticing with a start that the liquid in it has frozen over. “Keeping our temper well, I see,” she says drily, as they settle into position and step across the dance floor. 

“It’s a happy occasion,” he responds in the same tone, “I’m thrilled that everyone feels so free to comment on my—on Yuuri.”

She snorts. “Well, that doesn’t get better. I warned you.”

“You did,” he murmurs, twirling them around.

“You didn’t have to do all of this, either,” she gestures at the feast around them. “Ours was quiet.”

“I know,” he sighs. “I just…” he trails off.

“Having a real wedding isn’t going to make them respect him any more. Or get off your back,” she says, rolling her eyes. “I’ve had three eligible youths shoved in my face tonight already.” 

Viktor grimaces at the reminder—practically the only good thing about the last two years was that nobody from society went all the way to the Yashima front to try and set him up with their son or daughter. “Where is Sara?” he realizes. 

“Not here tonight. She’s not fond of these events. People don’t treat her well.” She looks up at him sharply, with something of a judgmental frown. “You haven’t always.” 

“I _never_ —“ 

“You never mistreated her,” Mila amends, “But you haven’t always treated her like a person, Vitya.”

They’re silent for a little while. The accusation stings, as much as Viktor knows the truth of it—he simply hadn’t much cared about her, before her situation became relevant to his. 

“Why did you do it?” Mila asks, as the song transitions to the next. It’s what everyone’s asking, in one way or another—Mila for different reasons than most.

“Why did you?” he returns, in lieu of answering.

“ _I_ didn’t have a choice. You know Natalya Ivanovna? Sheremeteva? She wanted Sara. And she would have had her, if I hadn’t stepped in. You—well, he’s handsome, but who would have picked Yuuri? Over Suiko? Or Yamashiro?” She shakes her head. “He would have been safe.”

Viktor stops abruptly in the middle of the dance. “Not _safe_ ,” he argues.

“Not any _less_ safe. I’m not questioning you, Vitya, it just seems—“ she shrugs. “A little selfish.”

“Well,” he grits out, trembling a little, because she’s right, it’s true, it’s _true_ , “I’m known for being quite selfish, after all. Good evening,” and he threads his way out between the other dancers to gulp down another glass of wine. 

Someone nearby is chatting, laughing—“I don’t blame him, he looks _delectable_ , I’d pick that ass over politics any day. But you don’t suppose His Highness will _share—_ “ and Viktor sees red.

Before he can march over, though, her companion shakes his head; “Ah, you know Viktor has always been jealous with his toys, I’m not sure he’ll even get a chance to leave the bedroom. Or the bed!”

The fury bubbling up inside him churns into sickness in his gut, and instead of confronting them Viktor turns on his heel and stalks to the nearest balcony. Some amorous couple is out there, but they bolt as soon as they see him, and he’s left in relative quiet. Dimly, he registers that he’s making a fool of himself; he can’t properly bring himself to care. He stares at the view without really seeing it, knuckles white on the railing, and stands there for a long time before steeling himself to go back inside.

That night, he dreams of Yuuri, dead-eyed, head tilted down, sliding to his knees, taking Viktor in his mouth with a desperation born of fear and hunger. He wakes up sticky and sweating, and stumbles to the washroom to vomit out bitter bile, heaving as Makka noses at him and whines.

He barely sleeps the rest of the night, and the dawn is slow to break, light seeping sluggishly through the heavy morning clouds. He gets up and runs, but the physical exertion does little to clear his head. Eight more hours.

He has a valet, but Viktor hasn’t wanted anyone to help dress him for anything short of full armor since he was a child. Petya’s job is mostly bookkeeping and ensuring that Viktor has access to the appropriate fashions; he inherited the role from his retired father, and continues the family tradition of being utterly unobtrusive. Thus, when Viktor returns from his run, his wedding clothes are already laid out on the bed, a bath is already drawn, and Petya is nowhere to be seen. He’ll be arranging the last details of their transport out of the capital, anyway. 

Viktor, as the man who will be taking the other into his household, is supposed to be going through a gauntlet of family interrogations, trials, and jokes right around now, supposed to be paying the marriage-price in whatever coin he can. Somehow, he doubts the Katsuki family would appreciate him giving them money or gifts for their son, and if they had the opportunity to hide him Yuuri would be long gone.

Thus, Viktor washes up, dresses himself, and waits. 

\--

At last, someone comes to fetch him. The procession to the chapel goes by in a blur; he is sure his ill mood shows in every smile and wave, but nobody comments or notices. 

Yuuri stands at the bottom of the steps leading up to the chapel, dressed as Viktor is in auspicious red. His hands are folded in front of him and his eyes are lowered. Viktor glances briefly around for Chris, but the Helvetian is nowhere to be seen, and Viktor’s heart pounds. He steps in front of Yuuri, shoulders facing, and holds out his right hand to Yuuri’s.

Yuuri takes it, but does not look up at Viktor, only turns when he does to climb the stairs.

The priest is waiting just inside the entrance, and blesses them briefly. He hands them rings, facsimiles of the ones Viktor considers their real wedding rings. Their hands part briefly to exchange them. Yuuri’s attention is still focused on the floor. The priest folds them back together, intoning a prayer for unity; he gives another blessing before conjuring up the magelight, a warm yellow glow that settles atop their clasped hands. Viktor squeezes Yuuri’s; it lies soft and light in his, and does not return the gesture.

They follow the priest into the chapel, and Viktor tries to catch Yuuri’s gaze, with no luck. The magelight flickers. A bad omen; the stronger it burns, the stronger their marriage will be.

He tries to concentrate on the ceremony, but the words wash over him without meaning. He goes through the motions dutifully, as does Yuuri—Viktor had explained the customs to him, earlier—but whatever relief he’d felt at seeing his beloved again is rapidly spiraling into panic.

When the ceremony is over, crowns placed on their heads, wine and bread shared, magelight extinguished, they lead the way to the banquet hall, all set up with shining glassware and china plates laid out in vast array. Their place is at the u-shaped table at the front of the hall, presiding over the guests. There are more for the reception than the actual wedding ceremony; all the foreign heads of state and diplomats, Rus’ nobility down to petty lords, military officers, even some of the wealthy civilian commoners.

Before they are seated, the liquor is poured; the Tsar raises his glass. “A toast,” he offers, “To the union of our great countries.” Not, Viktor notes, to the union of his son and son-in-law; but what did he expect?

Nevertheless, when the Rus’ attendees begin to shout— _bitter! bitter!_ —Viktor smiles and takes Yuuri’s cheek. His eyes are closed, lips parted slightly; Viktor bends down to press their mouths together. Yuuri is pliant and open beneath him, offering no resistance.

_Bitter, bitter_ , indeed. It's not like kissing Yuuri at all. What did they do to him? What did the Tsar do to him?

Upon completion of the toasts, the food is brought out in the Western style, all at once. Roast duck, flaky piroshkies stuffed with meat, fresh sturgeon cooked in cream, dainty servings of caviar, raw oysters on the half-shell, elaborate pastries shaped like turtles and swans. Viktor is struck with the uneasy realization that there will be little Yuuri can comfortably eat here; although he’s moved on to more solid foods, his stomach is still delicate, and the rich, heavy dishes will do little for his constitution. It’s another mistake on Viktor’s part, since he certainly could have requested lighter fare.

Instead, he waves down a server and motions to have the plates rearranged, so that the simpler dishes are closer to them. He ladles out a delicate fish soup into Yuuri’s bowl. A benefit of the seating arrangement is that there’s no pressure to make conversation with anyone else; the Tsar is conversing happily enough with the lords to his right, and Yura, on Yuuri’s other side, is as grouchy and uncommunicative as ever. Viktor can devote his full attention to his new husband. 

His new husband, who quietly eats whatever Viktor puts in front of him and says not a word. Occasionally, he’ll nod, if Viktor asks if he liked something. He still doesn’t meet Viktor’s eyes.

“Vitya,” the Tsar booms out, very suddenly. “I hear your boy can dance.”

If he can do nothing else, the man can command attention when he wants it. Conversations around the hall quiet as the guests turn their attention to the Tsar, and, by extension, Viktor.

He takes too long in answering. The Tsar gives him an imperious wave. “Have him dance for us, then.”

Yuuri, in possibly the first sign of life he’s shown all day, has gone slightly stiff beside him. Viktor looks at his own plate—he’s barely eaten, more interested in making sure Yuuri does—and swallows back his offended reply, _you_ _’_ _d make your son-in-law be the entertainment at his own wedding?_ Instead, he deliberately misunderstands, pushing his seat back and rising to his feet.

“Ah, we are almost all finished, yes!” he exclaims, even as most of the guests are only half done. “The dancing. The ballroom is bigger, but this will do for now.” He turns to Yuuri with a flourish, “Shall we?” 

Finally, Yuuri’s eyes meet his, just for a moment. Viktor’s almost afraid of what he’ll see there, but they’re bright and focused before he dips his head in a bow and stands.

Servants hurriedly clear the space in front of the table, and Viktor waves at the musicians who have been providing quiet background music during the meal. “Something lively!” he commands, as he guides Yuuri around the edge of the table. They pass by the Yashima, relegated to a lower table, and Yuuri folds into Viktor as they do, turning his face towards Viktor’s neck.

Maybe _they'd_ said something to him, last night. But when Viktor glances over, he sees no hint of malice towards Yuuri. His family mostly looks wary, and even the Empress has a subtle look of concern, or perhaps pity; the rest are studiously blank-faced.

They take up position in the center of the impromptu dance floor. Yuuri waits, passive. The first time they’d ever danced together, in a drunken, flirtatious haze, he had led shamelessly, with no regard for Viktor’s significantly higher social status. That night, Viktor had fallen into bed wide-awake, visualizing the unattainable dream of them opening the dancing together at their wedding. That dream lies tantalizingly close, now, unattainable only in the particulars, in the wrongness of how it came about. A wish granted by an evil magic, twisted into something ugly.

The music is indeed lively, and Yuuri is as graceful as ever, following perfectly in sync. Viktor can almost forget himself in watching him, but for his far-away expression, the thinness of his waist, the hair that falls a little too long over his temple. The slight unease of the guests watching. The banked storm in the face of his father. The way the musicians ease to a stop, after the first dance, waiting instead of continuing into the next song.

Viktor clutches Yuuri close to his body, tilts his head down to murmur. “Do you want to sit back down?”

Yuuri shakes his head, subtly, once, and raises his chin just enough so that his lips whisper into Viktor’s ear. “Let’s dance,” he says, and the simple request lifts Viktor’s heart with hope. He gestures to the musicians, and they dance.

Other people join them, out of some sense of propriety, Viktor’s sure. It’s not long before they’re too many to dance comfortably in the banquet hall. Viktor and Yuuri lead the way to the ballroom, where a new set of musicians have obviously been warned; they are already playing.

For a man recovering from such trauma as Yuuri has been through, his endurance is still impressive. He doesn’t seem to want to stop, not for rest or even water, and Viktor obliges. They dance through quick-paced polkas and slower, more sedate waltzes, until Yuuri’s feet falter and he nearly trips. Viktor guides him to a convenient chair, stands above him, proprietary.

The sun is beginning to droop down the sky; it is late afternoon. “We’ll leave soon,” Viktor says. “Do you want to say goodbye?”

“No,” Yuuri responds, softly, and offers nothing more. 

\--

Chris is waiting at the transport—the Helvetians will still be in Viktor’s employ for the journey—and after Viktor has settled Yuuri inside, he ducks out to confront him. They’re safely hidden behind the hustle and bustle of last-minute preparations. Even travel within his own homeland requires a contingent of servants along with the guards and thus far more people and vehicles than Viktor would really prefer.

“Where have you been?” he hisses at Chris, who leans back in shock. “What did they do to him?”

“What are you talking about, Viktor? I was with him until we reached the chapel. Calm down. What do you mean, what did they do?”

Barely mollified, Viktor purses his lips. “The Tsar. He talked to him yesterday, what did he do?”

Chris rolls his eyes and shakes his head. “Talked to him. Ah, ordered him around, a little bit. Nothing—he didn’t cast anything new on him, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“And Yura?”

“Yuri didn’t say a thing. I barely noticed he was there.” He frowns. “Look, I won’t say the encounter was pleasant, but it wasn’t—whatever you’re thinking.”

“What about the Yashima?”

“What _about_ them?”

“Did they say something?”

“Viktor, I don’t know,” Chris says with a sigh. “Why? Is he alright?”

“How can you _not know_ if you’ve been with him the entire time?" 

“Because they were in a secure room with one entrance, and I shooed the Rus’ guards away and stood outside and let their own servants serve them. They’re his family, Viktor, I gave them some privacy.” 

Viktor snarls and slams his fist into the side of the transport. Chris jumps. “Next time,” he snaps, “I tell you not to let someone out of your sight, you _don_ _’_ _t let them out of your sight_.” He whirls around and re-enters the coach.

Yuuri blinks up at him, and he winces; though he probably couldn't hear the conversation, he'd definitely notice Viktor’s display of temper. “Sorry,” Viktor apologizes, but offers no explanation.

Yuuri doesn't press. He does lean into Viktor’s side when he sits down, settling one arm over Viktor’s waist and tilting his head to rest on Viktor’s shoulder. He’s quiet until the transport is in motion, speeding lightly on a cushion of air, and they are well out of the city. 

“I’m glad that’s over,” he mutters, then.

“Yes,” Viktor agrees. He twines their fingers together and rubs his thumb against Yuuri’s. “Yuuri?”

“Mmm?”

“Did—are you alright?” It’s a stupid question, and Viktor cringes as soon as it leaves his mouth.

Yuuri hesitates for a moment, and then wriggles away, sitting up straighter. “Yes? I’m tired,” he amends.

Bereft of Yuuri’s hands, Viktor’s find each other, twisting nervously together. “Did anything happen yesterday?”

Yuuri squinches up his face. “Not really.” At Viktor’s silence, he elaborates. “Your—the Tsar called me in. But he just looked at me. And asked if I knew why you’d picked me.” He shrugs helplessly. “I had to answer, but I only told him you liked to see me dance.”

And so he’d wanted Yuuri to dance. “I see. Nothing else?”

Yuuri shakes his head, but there’s reluctance to it, and his glance darts away to the curtains on the opposite side of the cabin.

“And last night?”

“Last—oh!” Yuuri’s countenance lightens. “It was better than I’d thought. Christophe got rid of the guards. We talked about home. It was a little impolite; I think the others felt excluded.” His tone implies he doesn’t particularly mind. One side of his mouth lifts wryly. “We avoided unpleasant topics, as at any good formal dinner.”

“Okay. Good.” Here, in private, Yuuri seems to be no worse for wear. “I was just worried something would happen, that’s all.”

Yuuri sighs, and shuffles back towards Viktor, once again curling against him. “I think I’m about as good as I’m going to be right now,” he offers, and closes his eyes in a clear signal. It’s not long before his breath evens out towards sleep, apparently peaceful, though Viktor’s thoughts are whirling all the long hours of the journey.

\-- 

The dacha is small, as they go, but luxurious. Chris and the rest of the Helvetians stand guard, though here just barely removed from the heart of Rus’ Viktor is as safe as he can be. He draws Yuuri, barely awoken and blinking back sleep, through to the bedroom, and stands in the doorway, throat bobbing with a thick swallow. “The bathroom,” he gestures, “There’s running water, heated, too. Um. There should be sleep clothes, here in the dresser,” and his hand falls reluctantly from Yuuri’s shoulder as he paces over to investigate. “We’ll be here for two nights. Enough to rest a bit. Are you hungry? Or thirsty? The kitchen should be stocked, I can find something—“ he stutters to a halt at the press of Yuuri’s hand at the small of his back.

“Vitya,” Yuuri says, and Viktor turns to face him, to look him in the eye. Yuuri is toying with the loops and buttons on his shirt, flicking the top one open before grasping his own collar, fingers slipping down against his chest. 

“Vitya,” he repeats, as if the word has become heavy in his mouth. “It’s our wedding night.”

Before he’d met Yuuri, Viktor was not one to cry. Now, though, it’s as if all the tension and fear of the past two days (weeks, months, years) are welling up inside him, pricking the insides of his eyes and closing up his throat. His nostrils flare and he takes in a deep breath, to calm himself. He used to be good at that.

“I know,” he says, “Yuuri, I’m not going to make you do anything.”

A little wrinkle appears between Yuuri’s eyebrows. “Who said anything about making me?”

Bitterness rides across Viktor’s tongue and his fist clenches. “Yuuri, I can’t— _anything_ I tell you to do is making you do it. I say, stand up, and—and—“ he gestures sharply at the nets of magic woven through Yuuri’s bones, the nodes that would tug at him, like the strings of a dancing puppet, forcing him upright.

Yuuri’s hand drops from Viktor’s back. He runs it through his hair, smoothing it back. “So don’t tell me to do things. You’ve managed well enough so far.”

“It’s not that easy.” How many times has Viktor made some casual request? Some thoughtless demand—come here, kiss me, touch me, harder, faster, more. Before, it hadn’t meant anything. Now, it’s impossible for Yuuri to refuse.

“ _Viktor_.” Yuuri’s voice is strained. “I’ve lost so many things,” and while Viktor is frozen with the guilt, “Please. Let’s just pretend. For a little while.” He hesitates, and then raises both hands to cup Viktor’s face, grazing his thumbs gently against his cheeks. “Vitya, Vityenka, you’re still so beautiful. I can’t believe you’re mine." 

“Nobody else sees it that way,” Viktor whispers, shutting his eyes and leaning into Yuuri’s touch. 

“Hmm,” and before Viktor knows it, Yuuri has molded their bodies together, slotting one leg between his and curling his arms about Viktor’s neck. “No. They all think, tonight Viktor Fyodorovich claims his prize.” He turns them slowly, shuffling Viktor backwards, lips soft against Viktor’s ear. “I like that,” he admits, “That they think they know so much, and they’re all so wrong,” he leans forward and Viktor falls back, landing softly on the bed, Yuuri crouched still and predatory above him. “Don’t speak, then. Or if you must, ask, don’t demand. Like this. Vityenka, is this okay? Can I have you, tonight? Can I claim my right as a married man?”

Viktor is helpless under the soft weight of Yuuri’s eyes. He folds like paper damp with rain, unconsciously tilts his head back and spreads his legs a little wider. “Yes,” he breathes.

 Yuuri leans down, knees between Viktor’s, hands braced by his sides, and presses their lips together. The kiss is warm and soft and loving; no undercurrent of tension, none of the submission Yuuri displayed in front of the court. Viktor sighs into his mouth and lifts his hands to caress Yuuri’s sides, savors the taste of him. It’s not so heady, so recklessly intoxicating as when they’d first began this, years ago—the feeling of being kissed by Yuuri has mellowed out into something rich, deep, soothing; sweet warm wine on a cold night. He whines wordlessly when Yuuri pulls away, and tightens his grip on his sides.

Yuuri smiles fondly. “Even without speaking you are as demanding as ever.” He leans down again to brush his lips briefly against Viktor’s. “Clothes, Vitya.”

He starts at the belt tied around Viktor’s waist, picking swiftly at the knot and drawing cloth through cloth. He pulls it away, dragging it out from under Viktor’s back with a susurration of fabric, and methodically moves up to the fastenings on Viktor’s outer coat. His fingernails scratch lightly against the heavily embroidered fabric. With each button he frees from its corded loop, he awards Viktor a kiss, on his lips or cheek or forehead, until the coat lies open to reveal a white silken undershirt. Viktor shrugs his arms out, shifting his torso upwards, and allows Yuuri to take the hem of the undershirt to pull it up and off. Both garments are tossed aside unceremoniously.

He expects—hopes—Yuuri will proceed immediately to his pants, which are becoming rather tight, but a single finger at the center of his chest pushes him down to the bed again. Yuuri straddles him, just above his hips. His ass brushes teasingly against Viktor’s cock; when Viktor instinctively tilts his pelvis up to meet it, he’s given only the barest of contact before Yuuri rises up onto his knees. “No,” he says, “Not yet, Vityenka.”

He starts at Viktor’s neck, then, wet tongue flicking against the skin of his throat. He plants kisses down his torso in seemingly random places—above his right nipple, upon his belly, a series along one rib, upon the cloth right over the jut of his hipbone. They’re almost chaste, except that they make Viktor shiver and gasp. Even the damp warmth of Yuuri’s breath ghosting over his naked skin seems enough to make him beg.

“Please,” he whispers, finally, as the torment goes on.

Yuuri pauses. “Please what?”

He’s about to say it, but clamps his mouth shut at the last moment with an abortive groan. Instead, he reaches down to the lacings of his own pants, fumbling to untie them, granting himself sweet friction in the process.

Yuuri catches his wrists and brings them up towards Viktor’s chest, holds them still. “Okay,” he says, “Let me.”

He shuffles down the bed and starts unlacing, with steadier fingers than Viktor’s. “Sorry,” he says, unapologetically. “I wanted to remember what your body tastes like.”

Finally Viktor’s clothes are off, his cock proud and free and shameless. He bends his knees, spreads them wide, presents his need for Yuuri’s pleasure. “Beautiful,” Yuuri murmurs, stroking a hand down the crease of his groin and along his inner thigh.

(Haven’t so many people called him beautiful before? Only in Yuuri’s worshipful voice can he believe it.)

Yuuri bends down to nuzzle against his cock. Viktor hisses in a sudden whimpering breath as Yuuri parts his lips, placing a wet and open-mouthed kiss at its base. He makes his way in such a manner up to the tip; Viktor’s stomach tightens in an effort to keep from jerking his hips upwards at each touch. When he’s done with his exploration, Yuuri glances up at him through coal-dark lashes and sinks down, cruelly slow, plush pink lips cradling Viktor’s cock between them as he suckles. Viktor makes a high-pitched noise, something embarrassing between a groan and a whimper, reaches out a trembling hand to card through Yuuri’s hair. For all he praises Viktor, it’s Yuuri who is beautiful, an image of eroticism perfectly tailored to Viktor’s desires.

And then something—some flicker of light, or a blink of Yuuri’s painted eyelid, or the angle of his view—makes Viktor’s heart thud loudly in his chest and nightmares rear their ugly heads. _Gagging for it_ , Yuuri’s quiet and submissive demeanor today, _a little selfish_ , his sudden interest in sex tonight, _I only told him you liked to see me dance,_ dancing until he could no longer…

Viktor pushes at Yuuri’s forehead until he draws himself off, surprised and concerned. “Vitya? Is everything alright?”

Viktor shakes his head. Words stopper up his throat and tears come to his eyes unbidden, this time inexorable. He grips the bedspread beneath him and gasps for breath against the smothering weight of nothing on his chest as his heartbeat gets louder and louder.

“Vitya!” Yuuri clambers up the bed next to him, leans over him, lifts a hand to his cheek. “Vitya, look at me, breathe with me, shh, Vityenka…”

He can’t seem to stop himself. He turns his head to sob into Yuuri’s shoulder, and immediately hates himself for that. Why is he the one having problems? Nobody did anything to him. Nobody touched him, nobody hurt him, Yuuri shouldn’t have to deal with Viktor’s issues on top of his own.

Yuuri is counting breaths, in-two-three-four-out-two-three-four. He shifts, supports Viktor’s back so that they’re both sitting up, and holds him close. It takes some time before Viktor pulls himself away, unwilling to meet Yuuri’s eyes.

“I’m sorry,” Yuuri says, and he sounds a little heartbroken but mostly bemused, “I shouldn’t have pushed.”

Viktor shakes his head and angrily scrubs at his face. “No. It’s nothing. This is—this is ridiculous.”

“It’s not ridiculous.” He pauses. “Well, maybe a little. I’ve never given someone so terrible of a blowjob it gave them a panic attack before.”

Viktor snorts, at that, nose still snotty and face raw. “No, it’s not, not. It’s—“ he stutters around the sentence. “It wasn’t terrible. It was perfect.”

“Okay?” Yuuri lowers his head and peers up, trying to catch Viktor’s gaze.

He sniffles wetly, before the words burst out in a flood. “That’s exactly it, it was perfect, you’re supposed to be perfect, a perfect concubine, my perfect _whore_ ,” he babbles, “Whatever I want, whatever makes me happy, and if you don’t I can just make you, and you don’t—I can’t—I don’t know if it’s you or me or something else when you do things. I’m no different from my father, not really, we look the same and act the same, we’re selfish and impulsive and cruel,” and he’s out of breath, panting, “And I thought I could avoid it but _look what they_ _’_ _ve done to you_ , you—today, you weren’t—and I didn’t know…” he trails off, mouthing words but not speaking them.

“Are you done?” Yuuri asks, not harshly but unamused. “Vitya. You’re not making me do anything. I know the difference. You ordered me to do something _once_ , and it was an accident, and you apologized.”

_But what if_ , Viktor doesn’t quite manage to force out.

“As for your father—he did it, too. He didn’t _touch_ me,” he says when Viktor looks up in horror, “he made me walk around and raise my arms and _silly_ things, Vitya, but he took pleasure in it and he thought it was funny. There’s the difference. Look—tell me to do something.”

Viktor shakes his head mutely.

“Vitya. Come on. Tell me to go stand over there,” he indicates with his chin. “And I’ll resist. You’ll see the difference.”

Yuuri stares at him until he croaks out, “Go stand over there.”

Immediately, Yuuri’s limbs start to move, and Viktor can see the flashes of activated spellwork, see the muscles that aren’t directly affected straining, the jerky, stuttered nature of his motion. He looks like a badly controlled marionette. “ _Stop_ ,” Viktor cries out, before Yuuri even makes it off the bed. Yuuri freezes, every muscle locked in place, not even breathing. “Fuck, no, do—do what you want to do, no, relax, I don’t—“ but his awkward, stuttered commands seem to do the trick, and Yuuri shakes the magic off and turns back around.

“I’m sorry,” they say simultaneously, and Yuuri frowns and continues. “But do you _see_? You can tell.”

Viktor nods, unable to do much else.

“Vitya.” Yuuri crawls up towards him again, settles on his haunches directly in front of him. “The past two months have been _absolute hell_.”

“I know. I put you through that.”

“Shut up.” Yuuri’s eyes are damp now, too. “Do you know what the one thing that got me through it was? I can tell you now it wasn’t love of country, Vitya.” His voice softens. “I knew you were waiting for me. I knew that after all that, we’d end up here.”

Viktor grimaces. “With me throwing a temper tantrum while _you_ try to comfort _me_.”

Yuuri actually giggles at that. “Well, no, not that in particular. Just—you, and me, together. Finally. Don’t tell me you didn’t want that.”

“Of course I did.” Viktor slumps down, suddenly exhausted, and looks up at Yuuri—still, he realizes, fully clothed. “I want you. I just—I don’t trust myself.”

“I trust you.”

“It’s not enough.” It should be, but it isn’t. “You—I always planned—after we’re done traveling, I know a cursebreaker. She’s very, very good. When we take it off you, then it will be okay.” He twists his mouth wryly. “It’s been two years, what’s another couple of months?”

Yuuri looks unconvinced, but capitulates with a sigh. “Fine.” He glances around awkwardly. “Um. You said there was hot running water?”

“In the bathroom.”

Yuuri sheds his clothes quickly and efficiently while Viktor watches, and holds out a hand to him. “Bathe with me?”

The bathtub is large and retains heat well; the water is automatically pumped in; it’s the latest in magic and technology. Yuuri settles between Viktor’s legs and leans back, head lolling onto his chest. He holds Viktor’s hand in his and strokes down his arm with the other.

“You’re disappointed,” Viktor says, not even sure what to be guilty about anymore.

“Mmm. Yes,” Yuuri admits. “But this is enough. Being close to you.” He shifts so that he’s on his side, still mostly in Viktor’s lap. “Can I kiss you again, at least?”

“Yes,” and the position’s somewhat awkward but they manage it, kissing slowly until the water feels too hot and they break apart with a gasp. Viktor’s body has reacted—Yuuri’s too—steadily inching back to hardness. He elects to ignore it, though, and by the time they’ve dried off and dressed in soft sleep pants it’s gone again.

Yuuri curls on his side in the bed, and Viktor settles in behind him, nuzzling against his neck and breathing in his warm scent. They’ve been sleeping together for the past two weeks, but Viktor doesn’t think he’ll ever get tired of it. There’s something about having Yuuri in his arms, unguarded, content.

He knows he doesn’t deserve this. He knows it won’t last.

But he murmurs a soft, “I love you,” into Yuuri’s nape, and holds him like he’ll never have to let him go.

\--

_It wasn’t that Viktor hadn’t thought about what he was doing; it was just surprisingly easy to ignore things like consequences and loyalty and patriotism when Yuuri’s voice was humming in his ear, teasing him with the illusion that they were close enough to touch._

_The other man sighed, tired. “This would be so much easier if we could just kill the Tsar,” he said, half-joking and dead serious._

_A good son would, perhaps, be horrified at the thought; Viktor regarded the idea with vague amusement and a yawning sense of impossibility. “He’s notoriously paranoid,” he hummed, “Doesn’t let anyone near him. Not even me. Or Yura. Warded up to the eyebrows.”_

_“Mmm,” Yuuri grunted. “So I’ve heard.”_

_“Suspicious of everyone. Servants, children. His own guards. Maybe not the consorts,” he adds off-handedly. “Not much they can do.”_

_“Consorts? His, you mean? Mistresses?”_

_“No, no. The—how do you say—you know. When we take a country. The offering?”_

_“Oh. The whores, you mean?”_

_Viktor snorted. “Well, they don’t get paid."_

_“Sex slaves, then.”_

_“Honored and devoted spouses symbolizing the joining of our nations as family,” he corrects drily. “Spelled to obedience, brutalized into submission, kept so they’re soft and weak. Unpleasant life. Better if they’re chosen by someone kind, I suppose.” Not that the kind ones tended to make that choice, unless under exceptional circumstances._

_Yuuri doesn’t respond for a long time. “Vitya?”_

_“Hmm?”_

_“You could pick someone, couldn’t you?”_

_“Actually, I’d practically have to…” he stuttered to a halt, stiffening, sitting halfway up. “Yuuri, no. No.”_

_Yuuri’s breath sounded softly in his ear, soothing, gentle._

_“Sorry. It was just a thought.”_  


	6. Bonus Teaser

**A Man Who Has Given His All To His Country And Is Retired, Thank You Very Much**

And how retirement suits him. He’s been gifted a lovely little dacha down by the coast of the inland sea, close enough to the nearest town for the comfort of easy provisioning, far enough away for the greater comfort of solitude. He keeps a minimal staff, and spends his days relaxing, reading, and not worrying about current affairs.

When a loud banging on his front door disturbs his breakfast, he is thus very displeased.

Ivan, a reliable man about as old as he is himself, pokes his head into the room with an apologetic mien. “Visitors,” he says, blessedly terse.

“Tell them to go away.”

Ivan lingers in the doorway, which is enough unlike him to cause worry. “Important visitors,” he clarifies at last.

“Hmph. Fine.”

He stomps his way to the front door and out into the courtyard, where an entire household’s worth of people, transports, and supplies seems to be in the process of unloading. He stares at the ruckus in disbelief, until an unfortunately familiar head of silver hair appears, leading a slightly smaller man by the waist.

Callow, impetuous, spoiled Vitya spots him and grins.

“Yakov! You’re the only master for me!” He half-sprints over, dragging the other poor fellow along. “This is Yuuri,” he introduces. The man—the _Eastern_ man—looks up at him shyly through his lashes. Yakov’s scowl lessens—it’s meant for Vitya, after all. “We’ll be staying for the winter. Ah—is Lilia still around?” He looks around as if he’d spot her immediately.

“She lives in town,” Yakov harrumphs. “And no, you will not be.” He turns on his heel and stalks back into his own house to finish his damn breakfast.

And yet, somehow, staying the winter is exactly what they do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's that! I fully intend to write a sequel, although there's another project I want to finish up first.
> 
> I am looking for a beta for the sequel, if anyone's interested; I'm happy to reciprocate in kind, or write short gift-fic if you're more of an editor than a writer. ;)
> 
> I hope you all enjoyed reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it; please leave a short comment if you did (even as little as 'I liked this') means a lot to me! :)

**Author's Note:**

> say hi to me at [katineto on tumblr](https://katineto.tumblr.com), I'm lonely there


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